The Clumsy Thief
by dferveiro
Summary: COMPLETE! A clumsy thief turns into a suave assassin and spy, until Sark meets Sydney.
1. Prologue

**The Clumsy Thief**

Prologue

            Ross smiled, quite proud of himself as he lowered himself down a thin rope on a homemade pulley system. The room he entered was quiet, which was to be expected in the dead of night. 

            The bank was a simple one, and didn't seem like much of a challenge to him. He knew the vault had its own supposed state-of-the-art security system, and he knew he wouldn't be able to defeat it singlehandedly. But for his purposes, there would be plenty of information in the bank computers to make the trip worthwhile.

            He dropped to the floor and surveyed the empty bank lobby. 

            No one. He wore his cockiness openly as he sauntered to the manager's office. Ross started to pull out a hard drive from a dark bag draped across his shoulder when a blaring alarm sounded.

            Stunned, he looked around where he stood. Behind him was a thin beam of light, barely above the ground. 

            He cursed inwardly, and moved back and forth, wavering on his decision. The computer was not far away, filled with codes and routing numbers and files of high-end clients. 

            The wail of the alarm persuaded him. Quickly, he raced back to his pulley and rope. 

            Ross pulled on the rope. As he tried to scramble up it, the ceiling tiles and pulley crumbled to the ground. _Not good_. Ross groaned as looked from his back up at his first failed escape route.

            He brushed dust off his faded black attire as he heard squealing tires in front of the bank. The police would later watch the security cameras with laughter as Ross danced around the lobby, obviously unsure of what to do next.

            Ross decided on a back exit. 

            A police car came screeching up behind him as he ran out. Rain fell, but Ross didn't remember any call for it. It did work in his favor, though.

            Plowing down the street as fast as his young legs could carry him, Ross slipped down an alley as cars and officers followed him. A car or two slipped out of control, blocking the way of his pursuers.

            Looking up at the buildings around him, Ross saw ladders going to roofs, garbage dumpsters, a couple of doors and a dead-end. Quickly, he kicked in a door.

            His breathing was shallow. Ross heard footsteps filing through the open door. He quietly settled in a for a long wait, and tried holding his breath to keep from the overwhelming stench.

            It had been quiet for half an hour. Water dripped in the dumpster, mixing with rotten food, plastic bags, and what he feared were diapers. Ross debated whether to make a move, but held his place when he heard more footsteps.

            The steps were slow, purposeful, and coming near him. _One person_, Ross judged. He stopped breathing as they stopped in front of the dumpster. 

            A figure opened the lid, dug one arm into the messy rubble, and came up with Ross's hair.

            "Hey!!" Ross complained. He couldn't distinguish the face of what he determined was a man, but the grip he had on Ross communicated that he not fight back.

            The man dropped Ross on the wet ground in front of the garbage. He stared at Ross, analyzing him until Ross squirmed.

            "That has to be the most pathetic excuse for attempted robbery I have ever seen," the man said. Ross glared at the bold man, but stayed silent. He couldn't be sure if this man was RUC or some other police.

            "What's your name?" the man asked. 

            "What's yours?" Ross shot back. The man shot him a tight smile.

            "I'm here to help you, not cart you off to jail, where you deserve to go, especially after that lack-luster performance. Your name?" The man's eyes persisted for an answer.

            "Ross," the young man answered tentatively.

            "Ross what?"

            "Ross is my last name," he stated shortly. 

            The man continued to look for an answer. Ross sighed.

            "Fabian Ross." With that, the man let out a chuckling laugh that grew to mocking proportions. It lasted long enough to make Ross squirm.

            The man finally stopped laughing, much to Ross's comfort.

            "I see why you go by your last name. That'll be the first thing to go. I'm Henry," he said, extending his hand to lift the boy to his feet.

            "What do you want with me?" Ross asked. His body was tense, ready to take off if the answer was what he still feared. The man, Henry, saw this, and smiled with just enough gentleness to settle the boy's nerves as he said:

            "Teach you to succeed."

            Henry stopped the car in front of a decent-sized house in a secluded, but ritzy part of Dublin. Ross stared from the passenger seat as Henry got out, motioning for the boy to follow.

            The interior was more lavish than anything he'd ever seen, but that wasn't hard given his upbringing and lifestyle so far. Henry stopped in a sort of den, and faced the boy.

            "You'll be staying here, in my home. We'll start in the morning. Any questions?" 

            Ross regarded that question with a smirk, the first of many.

            "You said my name was the first thing to go. What did you mean?"

            "A weak name is weak. A strong name is strong. We're going to make you strong," Henry said. Ross stood puzzled before him.

            "Has anyone ever told you that you sound like that Yogi Berra fellow?" 

            Henry smiled tightly at him as he pointed down a dark hallway.

            "Your quarters are that way, at the end of that hall," Henry said, pointing. Ross didn't move.

            "So what is my new name going to be?"

            "I was thinking of Sark." Henry watched the teenage boy's confused reaction. "Get some rest. You'll need it."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1–Eight Months Later

            Sark awoke five minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He had done that now for five months. It took some adjustment; before he met Henry, Sark didn't awake until noon most days. But that was his former life.

            Sark immediately jumped out of bed, clad only in his boxers. He dropped on the floor, and started a series of pushups and sit-ups. He allowed himself to breathe shallowly as he lowered himself closer to the ground with each pushup. His muscles started to burn after the 30th repetition, which was a vast improvement from the three it took eight months ago.

            Breakfast followed his shower, served by Gilean, a manish sort of maid. The food was always good, but starting to be boring for Sark. The thought must have been quite visible on his face as his mentor walked in.

            "Your disdain for elegant food and lifestyles isn't very flattering, Sark," Henry started. "You should be grateful I saved your pathetic, bony body from the police when I did." 

            Sark suppressed a laugh at the lecture. It had become quite standard in the mornings now, and often the lectures continued throughout the day. But then again, Sark was in training.

            "You have been teaching me to like these luxuries so I can seem more luxurious. And it's my impression not to show that I'm wooed by luxury so I can seem more fitted to it." Sark accentuated his statement with a sip of fresh orange juice. "Why did you save me if I was so pathetic? Come now, I've been training for months without much of a clue as to how or where I'll apply it, and I still don't have a first name!" Sark realized these complaints were not very coherent, but all had truth to them.

            "I rescued you from the police because you would have been caught then, or if not then, at another time in the middle of a stupid and petty crime. This way, you have no file with the government, no red flags. I've saved you for a better work," Henry said. "And as for your name, Sark is a vast improvement from Fabian Ross, which undercuts any hint of power or authority."

            Sark started to butt in, but Henry continued and cut him off.

            "And it's just Sark, because it gives you a mysterious element which makes you seem more dangerous than you are or ever will be!" Henry huffed and sat down to his poached eggs and toast. 

            "I actually thought that my bank robbery was quite ambitious, considering my age," Sark added. Henry huffed again.

            "Your age! It was eight months ago! Besides, you can do much more and much better. Especially for a 17-year-old." That settled the two into an almost companionable silence.

            Two poached eggs later, Sark started up again.

            "What more can I do?" He looked down at his juice, not daring to look at Henry as he waited for an answer. Henry ignored the question.

            "Well, I'll see you in the basement. Let's start with target practice."

            Target practice had steadily improved as well. In his seventeen years, Sark had never handled a gun. He had never thought to resort to it in any crime either. But he had to admit, the handle of a gun felt natural in his hand.

            Looking down at the target, Sark's eyes narrowed in and out of focus. He automatically tightened a hold on his breathing. His fingers were loose but controlled. He could hear Henry hovering behind him.

            "Go." With Henry's command, Sark quickly snatched a magazine and slipped it into the handle of the gun. His eyes were already on target. He fired in quick succession, and felt the gun kick and get lighter with the disposal of each bullet in the clip.

            When he counted off the last shot, he didn't hesitate to replace the clip and continue at another target.

            He finished his routine by calmly placing the empty gun on a table. Sark turned to face his mentor. He noticed a discarded shell on his shoulder, and flicked it away with little more than a smirk.

            Henry nodded approvingly. He hit a button, sending the targets their way. The first target centered precisely on the heart and head.  The second had shots through every joint and area intended to wound and disable.

            "Sparring time. I have someone new for you to try."

            Sark stretched his hands, flexing them open and closed as he eyed his new sparring partner.  He could tell it was a woman, but she was covered in all-black sparring attire, including a face mask. The fact that she was a woman, though, made him wonder if Henry thought he was too easy to beat and needed a break. 

            "Whenever you're ready," Henry prompted. Sark nodded, and the woman started to advance.

            She started with a simple jab, which Sark dodged easily. He responded with a blow to her stomach.  She took it with less than a blink, and lashed out a kick to the side of his thigh. His leg buckled and the sparring picked up in pace.

            She was good, he realized as she nailed him in the chest.  He flew back onto the sparring mats, but quickly picked himself up. He launched a series of punches and kicks, dodging here and there. But he hit air most of the time, merely glancing a hit a couple of times.

            Sark was getting flustered. The woman put him on the defensive. He jumped above her kicks where he could, rolled back from hits that connected, and every now and then remembered to try and hit her. 

            His final attempt was a gutzy and irrational move. The woman spun around with a kick, and Sark jumped backwards away from her. He spun around with his own kick, only to be thwarted by being swept off his feet, literally. He jumped back up, and for some reason (which he would analyze for a long time later) did a sort of cartwheel away from her as she advanced again. The result, miraculously, was his feet connecting with her chin as he cartwheeled away.

            He stopped with a thud to the floor, never having mastered the landing of a cartwheel. His breath was ragged and short, but it wasn't alone. Sark looked up to see the woman gingerly stroking her chin. He watched as she removed her mask, and his breath stopped altogether for a moment.

            Sark shifted his gaze abruptly to Henry, but he was watching the woman as well.

            "Well?" he asked her, ignoring Sark for the moment. Sark looked back to her. She had long brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail. She was beautiful, in a classy, don't-even-think-about-it way. That was partly because she looked like she was in her forties. That thought jabbed Sark.

            "It's worthwhile to continue," she said smoothly. With that, she spun on a heel and walked out of the sparring room. 

            Sark gingerly lifted himself up, his damp blond hair curling at his skin. He felt something inside, something he would rely on the rest of his life. His instincts—they told him that those few words from his opposition meant more than just continue training. Sark had the sickening suspicion that they were an approval that allowed him to live.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

            Sark wondered about the woman every day. He never asked Henry about her or about her meaning in continuing.  But that sparring session showed Sark that Henry wasn't a do-gooder, trying to help a struggling thief. He had a specific goal in mind, and if Sark didn't live up to it, Henry would ditch him. 

            Sark started to hold back verbally, giving up the mini-arguments he and Henry used to engage in. Instead, he pushed himself to learn. To Sark, it was a matter of continuing survival.

            Somewhere along the way, he started to forget the person he was before.  Not just Fabian Ross in name, but in every way. He realized this, but didn't try to thwart the change. Surviving Henry's goals and expectations became paramount.

            His lessons with Henry started focusing more on image. He continued to train in fighting and shooting, but Sark started to learn about the finer items.

            On most days, there were language lessons. One month it was German. The next it was Italian. After that, Mandarin, Russian, Spanish, and Portuguese followed. Amazingly he didn't get them mixed up when speaking aloud, although when Sark thought about it, he could swear he was throwing in fragments of each language. At the very least, he was speaking Chinese with an Irish accent.

            Accompanying language lessons were lessons on proper behavior. They bothered him actually. He wasn't raised in a barn or anything, but evidently Henry thought it necessary for Sark. Table manners, choosing wines, refining accents, pouring drinks, eating, even how to walk—Sark saw no boundaries to what Henry would choose to teach him about.

            Technology was actually interesting. Sark thought he knew about computers enough, but Henry's lifestyle afforded much grander things in the technological world. Sark ate it all up, feasting on the knowledge.

            But he couldn't figure out what exactly was eventually to be expected of him.

            Henry was waiting with a coat in hand one morning as Sark came for breakfast.

            "Let's go out," Henry instructed. Sark obediently followed.

            He was intrigued; he had been outside the house since his arrival, but only for very specific reasons, like a test or a field trip to some facility housing a new technology. Sark got the impression this was more relaxed.

            It ended up being pretty formal. Henry's driver stopped in front of a men's clothing store. As they walked in, Sark knew everything was richly designed and expensive. The floor was a mixture of marble and wood designs; the ceilings housed crystal chandeliers.

            Henry was unfazed, as always. He walked directly back to a specific salesman. 

            "A new wardrobe, if you please," he said politely. Sark almost rolled his eyes, annoyed that he'd been brought along to help Henry pick out a new clothesline for himself.

            Suddenly, the salesman came what Sark thought was dangerously close to molesting him as he was measured. The clothes were for Sark.

            Three suits, a tux, four pairs of slacks, 8 shirts, 6 ties, and 4 pairs of shoes later, Sark couldn't help but grin. It felt good, to grin like an idiot, as if he were a son being spoiled by his father. The sobering reality made Sark fall back in line.

            There had to be a reason for this splurge in clothing. So far he hadn't any need for such fancy things; he had stayed mostly in the house and out of contact with others. He let his eyes bore his questions into Henry.

            Henry finally answered, several hours later as they refreshed Sark's Russian.

            "You're wondering where you are going now," Henry said. Sark didn't answer. "I have an assignment for you, something that requires you to be more properly dressed than in black tactical gear." He tossed a folder at Sark.

            "You're going to London. You're to steal something at the British Museum. All the information you need should be in that folder," Henry said. "There's a gala, which you'll attend. Start packing tonight. You leave tomorrow afternoon."

            The tux and one of the new suits hung in his dress bag, which was compliments with the purchase. _Better be after all the money spent there_, Sark thought. Thrift was something Sark was accustomed to, and blowing lots of money on overpriced clothing was not. But the overpriced clothes added to his image.

            It was slowly coming together for him. Bit by bit, he started to understand and accept what were parts of his image. And bit by bit, he understood what was expected of him. For now, it was to become a high-class person who could blend in and yet appear above the law. As he read over the information Henry gave him, Sark understood that the thief would still be part of him.

            The target was some artifact at the museum. He was to go to the museum as Perry Smith, the son of some high-end ambassador. The ambassador, of course, would not be attending.

            Sark shook his head and added some shirts and casual items to his bag.

            Henry gave him a solemn nod as Sark stepped up to the jet. 

            "Be careful. Remember your profile," Henry cautioned in one more lecture. Sark nodded. 

            "I will." He turned to board.

            "Sark," Henry started, "You're above everyone else. Don't forget it." Sark chewed on that for a moment, then disappeared into the plane.

            He had never flown before. His whole life was spent in Ireland, mostly in Galway. He'd seen planes in films and all, but this jet was very plush. Sark sat down, cautiously, gingerly. A sharply dressed woman emerged from a cabin.

            "Choose any seat you'd like. We're starting our taxi and will take off shortly," she said with a tight smile. "There's a bar up front if you'd care for anything. Help yourself." With that, she disappeared into the cockpit.

            Sark tried out his seat, slowly sitting back into the soft chair. His body was tense. A reflection in the window pane caught his eye. It was his own, but looked so much different. Dressed in a dark navy suit with a simple white shirt and no tie, he noticed his thin neck barely filling the collar. The tension in every inch of his body wore heavily on his face. He looked scared, he admitted to himself. A scared boy in the body of almost a man, about to enter a dangerous world.

            He had stolen most of his life. Never had anything been so nerve-wracking. Previous jobs were thrilling for him. But now he felt like he had something to prove. Something to prove to Henry, or maybe not.

            The jet started to accelerate. Sark hadn't even noticed the taxi. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the plane, and his body, tilt back and lift into the air. A faint rush went through his head, and for a paranoid moment, Sark thought he'd been drugged. But it passed, and Sark tried to relax.

            He wondered about what Henry meant. Being above everyone else. . . was that praise?

            Sark ordered breakfast to his hotel room. He had checked in to the designated hotel and stayed in all night. Now he prepared for the day ahead.

            He dressed casually, yet the attire was stiff compared to a favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt. A pair of khakis, a french blue shirt, brown Docs . . . he looked himself over in the mirror, shrugged, and headed out the door.

            The museum, Sark discovered, was a short walk from his hotel. He felt foolish as he paid a meager fee to the cabbie. He should have known better, Sark scolded himself.

            The museum could have been Buckingham palace for all he knew. Sark tentatively walked to the entrance, ever aware of the guards present in the corners. 

            He played the part of an art-conscious tourist, walking around from one movement to another. _What a waste_, he thought. Why such swirls of paint were worth so much, he didn't understand. That's why he stuck with banks before; cash was all that mattered.

            The finer gentleman that Henry tried so hard to beat into Sark took over. The art was priceless; Sark allowed silent respect to overcome his features.

            It provided the cover he needed, so another part could overtake him. As he made his way to the artifact, he scoped out the security. The guards wore blue blazers with a seal over the heart. Cameras were in every corner. But the artifact was in the center of a corded-off section, and surrounded by other items of no concern to him. There had to be an alarm triggered to it, but Sark couldn't see how with so much attention focused around it. He walked past the artifact, glancing quickly at it, and moved on to another exhibit.

            Sark soaked in a bath, willing some solution to come to him as the afternoon wasted away. Henry hadn't given him any idea on how to get the artifact. No weapons, cool gismos, nothing.

            Was it a test? Was Sark supposed to come up with a brilliant plan?

            Maybe he could plant something around the artifact that would allow him to circumvent the security system after the gala.

            Maybe he could cause some distraction elsewhere during the gala, and then swipe the artifact and make off with it.

            Maybe he could act drunk and conveniently fall into the case.

            Sark shook that idea off, and slid down beneath the surface of the bubbly water. He was going to need something, and soon.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

            The tux looked amazing. Well, not to be cocky, but _he_ looked amazing. Except for the tie thingy.

            Sark folded and tucked and tied every which way, but the bow tie always ended up crooked or uneven. His reflection screwed him up too—that whole mirror image thing. 

            _I don't need this right now_, Sark thought. He had yet to come up with an idea for stealing the artifact.

            He sighed and pulled on an end of the bow tie, giving up for the moment. Looking around the hotel room, Sark gathered his plastic key and invitation, and left the room.

            The elevator left him at the lobby. As he stepped out, Sark ran smacked into a bellhop.

            "Oh, I'm sorry, sir," the pimply-faced bellhop said. Sark looked himself up and down, straightening his tuxedo.

            "It's all right," he said with a slight air in his voice. He paused, his hands hovering over his bow tie. "Do you know how to tie one of these?"

            The bellhop did a good job, Sark decided. Examining his reflection in the side view mirror of a limo, Sark was pleased to find the bow tie perfectly tied and positioned.

            He felt his breathing quicken and his whole body tense as he approached the museum. The red carpet was out, and Sark felt slightly intimidated as he watched couples extravagantly dressed strut through the entrance.

            Sark seemed more like a robot than a man as he walked in. With each step his breath released in short puffs. 

            Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection. Sark turned to the mirror, lavishly framed and decorated. Suddenly, he felt a swirl of pride. He'd forgotten in the short time since his hotel that he looked _good!_ Henry's words came back to him: _You're above everyone else. Don't forget it._

            Though he wasn't sure what Henry's intentions were in training him, nor was he sure about who he himself was, the words strengthened him. He stood up straighter and allowed himself to be cocky again.

            That's when pieces of the plan started to fall into place. 

            It began with the facade. Complimenting his tuxedo was a firm smirk, pleasant enough for the stupid ones, and confident enough to make him seem annoyingly arrogant. His eyes turned icy, fixed straight ahead. The blonde hair seemed to stand with a little more spike. He looked like a spoiled bad boy. And everyone loves the bad guy.

            Especially the red head in the silver satin dress. Sark noticed her admiring gaze shortly after snagging his first drink. He ignored it for now, and made a round through the museum lobby. 

            She kept glancing his way, coyly between sips of whatever glass she was on. She made a show of talking with some man, and, Sark noticed, she pretended to enjoy talking to the man a lot more when Sark saw it. 

            Sark maintained his cool, indifferent air. He stayed in one spot, admiring one painting while she made her way toward him.

            When she said her opening line, Sark knew what he had to do. She was the perfect cover. He let her think she broke his facade with her subsequent comments. Their conversation was meaningless, but probably would be thought of often by her.

            Sark barely caught her name, but instantly discarded it. He called her "love," covering up his Irish accent perfectly. They made their way around the museum, laughing at some of the art, and cuddling around others. 

            He had to admit, cuddling with a perfect stranger was a bit disconcerting. He hadn't been close to a girl since . . . Amy Reardon, when they were 15. She was the only one he'd ever kissed, and that had been a bit of a disaster.

            Sark mentally shook that thought out of his head, but it popped back up as he considered what he had to do soon.

            The young woman probably never realized it, but Sark guided her slowly towards the artifact. Once in the same room as it, Sark scoped out the guard. He was hardly any older than Sark, and looked at the girl eagerly.

            That's when Sark cued himself. He started by wrapping his arms around her. She responded instantly with her hands feeling their way down his back.

            Sark tried to hold back his alarm as her hands meandered further south. She was forward, he'd grant her that. His breath quickened, despite his mind's firm instructions to stay normal. She was reaching for him, his face, his lips. The inevitable kissing was looming, and Sark had to swallow his memories and remember his facade.  

            His first kiss, which was with Amy, had been enough to make him never want to confront the opposite sex again. They had been friends for awhile, and suddenly found themselves attracted to each other while at some friend's hangout. When their lips met, Sark found his jaw locking, and his mouth open like a fish's. His lips went cold and limp, and he later discovered, to his horror, that he had grape bubble gum in his mouth. Later she claimed she hadn't noticed anything, but her friends told him otherwise.

            Now Sark faced what he hoped was redemption. He had to be cool, experienced. His whole persona for this suggested he had kissed hundreds of girls. But this girl was No. 2. 

            He kissed her hard, maybe too hard, but she came right back at him. From there, he sort of imitated whatever she did.

            It was rather difficult but he managed to keep an eye on the guard. The poor bloke was completely into their makeout session.

            As they kissed, Sark gently led the girl and himself to the corded off section in the room. Among the priceless items sat the artifact. The museum curators probably thought it the least valuable of the bunch, but then again, they were foolish enough to leave it out in the open.

            The kissing continued, along with her hands feeling him just a little too much for his comfort. They kept rocking back and forth, closer and closer until—

            They bumped into the cord, startling the girl. Sark used her movement to fall believably into the exhibit.

            The guard snapped out of his daze and quickly approached them. Various art items teetered back and forth, one even falling. Somehow it didn't break, much to Sark's relief.

            He and the girl were on the floor, looking up at the guard. Both started to laugh.

            "Forgive us," Sark started. "We, uh, got a little carried away." The guard's eyes darted around the room, waiting for those watching from the cameras.

            "Please stand up, sir, miss," the guard said. He stooped over to the fallen object, some vase that had to be plastic for not breaking. Sark got up quickly, stepping backwards to the artifact. His hand darted behind him, snatching the artifact. Sark's hand dipped the back of his cummerbund, securing the artifact in it.

            "Pardon us. Perhaps we should take this elsewhere," Sark said, with a mischievous grin to the woman. The guard held up a hand.

            "I'm sorry, sir, but I need to have you wait for security," the guard cut in weakly. Sark faked a horrified gasp.

            "Look, I can't be associated with such a mistake. Do you know who I am?" Sark asked. "My father is an ambassador; besides, I doubt the lady here wants to be embarrassed." Sark held out his hand to her, and she took it with a pouty smile.

            "You really should wait," the guard persisted, though half-heartedly as he stared at the woman. Her dress accented her body in all the right places, and the guard noticed appreciatively. 

            Perfect, Sark thought. He approached the guard, dipping one hand into his inside jacket pocket.

            "Listen, I don't want to disappoint her. Do you? Let us be moving, and I'll make it up to you," Sark said. With that he pulled out ten crisp bills from his wallet.

            He could hardly believed that last-minute scheme worked, but everything was perfect. The girl, who he escorted home and left there, had been a believable decoy. The guard was weak, and more interested in the girl than Sark was. 

            That cocky persona stayed with him: He was _good_!

            Sark strutted back through the hotel lobby, subconsciously patting the artifact hidden on his tux. 

            Having completed the task, Sark's thoughts wandered back to Henry and Ireland. What was next now? Henry would be proud, Sark assumed, but then the doubts surfaced. 

            Did Henry really even care? He sent him with no plan to obtain the artifact. Yeah, it was a test of sorts, Sark knew. But if Sark had failed, what would have happened? Would Henry come for him, or leave him to whatever fate?

            Sark approached his room, key in hand. He stopped just short of the door.

            The do-not-disturb sign was backwards. Someone had touched it.

            He listened, his senses suddenly alert. He heard feet shuffle inside. He started to back away, when the door was flung open, and a masked figure grabbed him.

            Sark struggled against the assailant, but was dragged inside the room.

            He managed to wriggle free, and quickly launched a kick to the figure. But two more came on Sark. He fought, valiantly, he thought. The punches and kicks could only do so much. Sark knew it was only a matter of time.

            He fell to the ground, the result of a hard blow to his face. Two of them grabbed him from either side, holding his arms and forcing them behind him.

            "What do you want!" Sark shouted. He felt someone pat him down, and stop at the artifact. They took it, and panic went through Sark. Now what? he thought.

            Hard plastic bit into his wrists as they bound them with a strong plastic tie. Sark still struggled against them, trying to make it as hard as possible for them. They taped his mouth shut and placed a ski mask on him backwards. They started shoving him toward the windows. 

            Blinded, he tried to stop the movement with his feet. His assailants ended up picking him up. _Think, think!_ He had to find a way out of this.

            Someone was tying something to Sark. A rope, Sark hoped, as they lifted him out the window. One of them grabbed him right before Sark swore he was going to fall. 

            Instead, he felt that he was being repelled down outside the hotel. _Why would they take me? _

            The descent was quite disconcerting for his tastes, not being able to see and all, but he felt a bit of relief when his feet touched the ground.

            He immediately started to struggle again, and managed to make someone yelp in pain. Another one grabbed him as he heard a vehicle's engine start. He fell hard as he was shoved inside. Before he could decide what type of vehicle he was in, something hit him viciously over the head. He felt woozy, light, until he was pretty sure he was unconscious.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A/N: The Mandarin is written in _pinyin_, which is a romanized version that helps silly Americans like me learn the language and its pronunciation.

The noise wasn't just in his fuzzy mind. Someone was rustling around him. 

            Sark's head was throbbing like a heartbeat, only painful. He was lying on the ground, still bound and blindfolded. He slowly thought about what happened.

            Who had him? Sark thought back the museum. Could someone have seen him there and known he took the artifact? He expected it to be discovered sooner or later, but if that was it, why capture him like this?

            He remembered being repelled down the side of the hotel. _Who would do that_? Why go to all that trouble if it were local authorities?  That ruled them out. _A rival thief then?_ But his captors were too many and too well organized to be simple thieves.

            He stopped questioning himself as he heard footsteps in front of him. 

            The person delivered a sharp kick to his ribs, and Sark fell to his side on the ground. He heard someone shout something, but didn't catch it.

            His tormentor's reply, though, was clearly not English.

            It sounded like Mandarin, but muddled. _A native-speaker?_ That could prove difficult for his limited training. Not to mention . . . _where_ was _he?!_ He couldn't have been out that long, unless they had drugged him.

            Again the question _why_ tugged at his brain. It dissipated with another slew of Chinese, this one directed at him.

            "_Shuo ba!_" He missed the question, but this command to speak was punctuated with a kick to Sark's leg. He felt two people flank him and lift him to his feet. "_Shuo ba!_" one man said again. Sark rolled his eyes under the ski mask. Evidently, they forgot about the tape over his mouth. _Stupid pansies don't even realize— _The guy punched him in the side.

            _"Ta bu keyi shuo!_" Finally the other man stepped in. They half-dragged Sark forward. Sark let himself hang like dead weight, and tried to absorb the path they were taking.

            His senses began taking inventory. The place was open and echoed. It was drafty, and there seemed to be some gritty dust on the floor, maybe sawdust by the sound of it. He heard machinery in the distance._ Some sort of warehouse_, _maybe in an industrial district_.

            He heard the click of a door opening, and then was thrown to the floor. It was cold cement, that type that is always smooth and dirty. 

            Sark was blinded by light suddenly as one of his captors removed his mask. With a bully-like grin, the same captor ripped the tape off Sark's mouth, causing him to suppose he wouldn't have to shave that area for some time.

            After his eyes adjusted, Sark saw his two ruffian captors, and another man. None of them looked Chinese. Before he could dwell on that any longer, the questions began.

            "_Nin jiao shenme mingzi_?" asked the third man. He was asking for Sark's name. Sark was struck by the polite grammar the man used, but he held his tongue. The man gave a slight nod and one of his men punched him on the side of his face.

            He tried not to groan, and shook off the blow.

            "_Nide mingzi shi shenme_?" The question was the same, but this time the grammar was more gruff. Sark feared that meant this interrogation could take a nasty turn.

            Henry had never said much on what to do if ever captured, and Sark never felt the need to ask. He knew how to deal with the authorities.

            But Sark never suspected falling into the hands of a rival. Sark wasn't unaccustomed to pain, but this time it was received as he was helpless. He thought back to every movie he had ever seen about some stoic hero surviving any torture.

            _Stop it! Focus on what you know and what you can figure out!_ His interrogator was passively waiting for answer. Another nod at his silence sent a blow Sark's way.

            His head snapped back and his cheek stung with pain and heat. He wasn't sure if there was a cut yet, or if he was imagining the feeling of blood running down his face.

            _Think, think!_

            Another blow was coming his way when he abruptly spat out:

            "Wait, wait!" Sark's head bobbed around bit, but he caught his breath when the fist stopped mid-air. "I don't speak Chinese, or whatever!"

            The interrogator nodded, and one of the captors continued with the punch. Sark muttered under his winded breath, swearing that blood was now trickling down to his chin.

            "My name is Perry Smith! My father's an ambassador–when he finds out, you'll have Interpol and every other agency after you!"

            Sark half-acted scared, but measured the effect of his words on the man. He thought he caught a smile, but it was gone too quickly. _Does he know . . . ?_

            "Judging by your false papers, and your theft of the artifact, you're not who you say you are. Try again," the man said. His voice was smooth, eerily calm, and it took everything inside of Sark not to show the real fear in him.

            "Why don't you tell me who you think I am?" Sark challenged. He let his eyes glaze with icy blue, electric and vibrant. He recognized the change inside of him, but hardly focused on it since his life seemed to be at stake.

            Maybe his stare worked, because the interrogator seemed to falter. Sark thought the man looked like he was carefully considering his words, tweaking in his mind how to say something.

            _What is he hiding then?_ The interrogator had abandoned the Chinese. Sark thought about that. Why even use Chinese when it obviously wasn't native to him or his men? Throw Sark off, disorient him? It had worked, to an extent. 

            "Who do you work for?" The interrogator regained his authoritative presence. His question was calm, like before, but now just as threatening.

            Sark was still analyzing his situation. His delay in any response earned him another punch. The interrogator's lackey was kind enough to hit the other side of Sark's face. _Good, I'll have matching bruises_.

            "What makes you think I work for anyone but myself?" Sark questioned back. His face was throbbing, and he resisted the temptation to rub it gently on his shoulders.

            "We know otherwise," the interrogator ventured. 

            "Really?" Sark said, with an elevated note of skepticism. "Well, you know differently than I do. Take a look at the picture. Did you notice how I got the artifact?" The interrogator waited for Sark to continue.      

            "I went in with no backup, no high tech gadgets, and not much of a plan," Sark said. He stopped there, waiting for the reaction.

            He couldn't read the interrogator's face, and that worried Sark. 

            Finally, he spoke.

            "So you say you have no employer, but just work for yourself," the interrogator summed up. Sark stared ahead at him, blood slowly clotting and drying on his face.

            The man smiled and laughed silently to himself. He turned to leave the room, and quickly murmured some instructions to the two alternating hitters. 

            Sark was left alone with them, and as they started to kick him in the ribs, he realized his bluff had failed completely.

            When he came to, the blindfold and gag had been replaced, and his hands tied to a pole behind him as he lay on the cold floor. Groaning, he righted himself.

            His ribs felt tender and on fire. Breathing just added fuel to that fire. He settled for shallow breaths, and took inventory of the rest of his injuries. His face felt somewhat numb, but he could tell it was swollen. His wrists stung as the binding continued to dig into his skin. And last, but not least, his legs was asleep, making any additional movement even more difficult. Not that he was encouraged to move much anyway, given the rest of his state.

            His mouth was cotton-dry. Sark swallowed hard, trying to relieve something about his condition. That's when he heard it.

            Sark assumed he was alone, but he could hear someone else . . . breathing.

            The breaths were purposely quiet, but the exhaling made a slight noise that broke the silence he assumed he was in.

            Sark doubted it was another prisoner. The breaths were too casual, too normal. So his interrogator again? Sark hoped not. Pain wasn't something he relished.

            He thought about what he had deduced so far—the Chinese, the tells of the interrogator, and his rough treatment. Something stood out about each, something that all pointed to one thing: a test.

            Henry could have set up some elaborate charade as a test. Sark mentally shook his head. Henry would never have him tortured. _But it would explain the questions. They want to see if you'll give up Henry_, one side of Sark thought. Maybe this was Henry's way of teaching him to survive capture and torture. Sark easily assumed he would survive, an assumption he didn't dwell on or want to question.

            "What's on your mind?" The voice, surprisingly, was that of a woman. It jolted Sark out of his thoughts. He had been quite happy to play along with the pretense of her not being there. _Too late_.

            She was calm also, but not threatening as she spoke. An accent rolled out with her words, something European, maybe closer to Russian. It was soothing, really, to hear her. After his previous treatment, Sark would have blurted out all his thoughts, had it not been for the gag.

            In his silence, he heard her approach him. She was wearing heels, Sark decided. He caught a slight scent of perfume, but let it go when he felt her touch him.

            Her fingertips lightly traced his face. It was so soft, and almost enticed him to relax. But he was too tense, between the unexpected gentleness of her touch and the injuries' pains shooting through his body.

            She let her fingers walk down his face, to the edge of the ski mask that still worked as his blindfold. Slowly, she peeled it up, stopping to leave his eyes covered. She undid the gag, which was simple cloth this time.

            Sark was able to speak, but this sudden change in events left him speechless and doubting his analysis.

            "You're trying to figure out who captured you, and why. What have you come up with?" the woman asked. 

            Sark licked his parched lips, stalling.

            "Could I get a glass of water, please?" he asked. Why he was so polite, he didn't know. But he felt his tone matched hers, in civility at least, and in ease and confidence at best.

            He heard her pace around him.

            "A meal has already been ordered. It's on its way," the woman answered.

            That freaked Sark out. In his previous session with consciousness, the game was nothing but brutality and sniffing out lies. Now it was a daring game of mental chess, cloaked with this ease and friendliness that threw Sark off enough to worry him.

            "Tell me. What's your best theory?" she asked again. Sark hesitated, still trying to piece things together.

            "You've made me believe we're in China, to unnerve me and make me question where we are and how long I was out the first time," Sark began. He swallowed as he tried to solidify his theory with any indications he could hear from the woman. "I've been asked who I work for, though the evidence of my robbery points to my lack of experience and know-how in this realm."

            "What does it all mean?" the woman asked. She stepped closer, until Sark felt the tips of her shoes against his legs.

            His mouth opened once or twice before any sound came out.

            "It means I'm being tested, to see how long I might last if this were for real," Sark finally guessed, as confidently as he could sound.

            There was no reply for a moment, just a resumption of her pacing around him.

            Sark half held his breath, waiting for some reply by which to gauge his correctness. 

            The circling stopped, and Sark felt the rest of his mask being removed.

            The room was dark, with faint light from outside the room. Windows allowed that light to shine on the woman's face.

            Sark sucked in a breath, shocked by who he saw. It was the woman he had sparred with.

            "Who are you?" he asked. His heart started to race and a dangerous temper started to build within him.

            "Your new boss," she said without losing a beat.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

            "I thought Henry was my boss," Sark said. He didn't know what to think. Why was she here? Sark thought back to what she said after they sparred. _It's worthwhile to continue_. Had she been calling the shots from the beginning?

            "He was. But you can go further now, which is why you're here." Her long dark hair cascaded around her shoulders, and Sark was alarmed with how dangerous she looked then. 

            "Did Henry set me up for this?" His voice wavered as he asked that. It was a question that could confirm his doubts and make him never fully trust anyone again.

            She must have heard the weakness in his voice. It set her off the wrong way.

            "Henry sold you to me. He took you in, trained you. Our fight and your progress showed me that you had potential to go forward. If you hadn't, Henry would have stopped training you," she said. Sark knew she was implying his elimination. It sent a shudder through him, and the hardness of the truth made him cower with hurt and instinctual disbelief.

            "Why?" It was the only thing Sark could think to say, and it was the perfect question to the many issues swirling in his mind.

            The woman smiled tightly. 

            "It's what he does. Your trip to London was his last test for you, to see if you were ready."

            Sark's head ached as it seemed to spin. He shook it clear.

            "Why the interrogation, the torture?" He couldn't mask indifference with that question. His whole body demanded anger and some sort of justice.

            "That was my test for you," she replied without hesitation. She walked to him again, bending down behind his field of vision.

            Sark felt his hands being freed. He gingerly rotated his wrists, examining them as he did. There were deep paths in the wrists where the binding had been, but that would heal.

            He felt her eyes on him, watching him as he tried to stand.

            "There's a bed in the corner. Get some rest," she said, moving for the door. "We'll speak more tomorrow."

            With that, she left, leaving Sark alone and battered with a million questions, injuries and emotions running through him. He stumbled to the bed in the dim light. He groaned as he fell on it, hard. The last thing he remembered was that indescribably painful feeling of betrayal.

            The surprising aroma of pastries woke Sark the next morning. Biting his lip to suppress the aches and pains, he turned to the source. 

            Orange juice, fresh pastries, half a grape fruit . . . _What in Hades is going on?_ Sark thought. _Yesterday was an unpleasant beating, and now it's all peachy_. 

            By the tray with his breakfast was a change of clothes. Sark started to stand, but choked on a gasp of pain and sat back down. He breathed in slowly, and released the air as he surveyed his surroundings.

            _Is this the same room as last night?_ That cold floor was actually marble. The pole was quite the handsome column, faux finished to imitate the marble. Sark very tentatively stood up, and started to walk around the room. 

            It was more lavish than Henry's mansion. Sark knew he wasn't the best in considering people's wealth, but based on this exquisite room, his new employer really shouldn't need to work.

            That thought drew his attention to the questions. What gave her the right to capture him, test him, torture him? As much as Sark wanted to be angry, he let that question go. The woman cared nothing about rights; all that mattered now was survival. Thinking about what he was entitled to would only get him killed. 

            He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He couldn't push aside the irony. Last time he saw himself in a mirror he had been the lady killer, stud and all. Now his tuxedo was splattered with drops of blood, dirt, and rips. His hair was the worst version of bed-head he'd ever seen, and his face––well, no need to get himself down.

            Sark downed the glass of orange juice. He looked around, noticing an open door to a large bathroom. After a quick bite of a pastry, he grabbed the change of clothes and headed for the shower.    

            He was instantly grateful he changed in the bathroom, because when he opened the door he found the woman sitting on his bed.

            "How did you sleep?" she asked. Sark froze, a little surprised by her sudden appearance in the room, and by her seemingly random question.

            "Well, thank you," Sark managed to say at the last moment. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but something told him that now was not the time. He waited for her to make the next move.

            "I see the clothes fit you well. Your clothes from the hotel and from Henry's will arrive today," she stated. "Do you have any questions for me?"

            He wanted to ask why Henry "sold" him. The man could have been Sark's father, even in appearance. But Sark held to his resolve not to ask about the past.

            "What do I do now, and what is your name?" Sark asked. His restraint and yet forwardness made her smile. It reinforced his suspicion that he was winning her confidence, maybe even affection. If nothing else, Sark just knew that she didn't meet all her "new hires" personally.

            "Come with me."

            Sark started with stepped-up training, under the supervision and direction of Mr. Khasinau. It was different than at Henry's. It was more pointed, more daring, more . . . spy-like. Sark always thought being a thief was his calling in life, but now he wasn't so sure. The woman, who he could call Ms. Derevko, seemed to have a wider role for him.

            He was supposedly under Khasinau's command, but Sark knew the man took his orders from Derevko. Though Khasinau was far less dangerous, he felt safer with Derevko. Sure, she was a viper, but Sark was taken with her, in a strictly non-romantic way.

            No, in reality, Derevko was now the closest thing he had to a mother. Yeah, she was twisted enough to beat her employees in order to get them to work for her, but there was something in her that he saw every now and then in half moments. It was almost a sadness, a faint caring. He knew such emotions weren't directed to him, but sometimes he knew she cared.

            For example, one night after a rough training operation, Sark slipped on a roof and managed to impale his side with a television antenna. Though he walked tall and straight, and tried to conceal the wound, Derevko found out. She was in town that night, and came to Sark's room at "the facility," as they called it. Sark had clumsily bandaged himself, but Derevko redid it, making it tight and straight. She talked with him; it wasn't about his foolish fall, but about meaningless things like music and favorite memories.

            It wasn't all like that, especially when Khasinau or others were around. Sark was improving in his abilities, and he knew, as the others around him did, that he was gaining Derevko's favor more and more. Sometimes he thought others envied that–even Khasinau.

            Khasinau was tall and thin, gangly man. He had sunken cheeks and more wrinkles than a Sharpei dog. His instruction was to the point, with sparing praise in the form of meaningless stares. Sark instinctively knew some inner turmoil plagued the man, and that had bearing on Sark's fate. As much as he was wary about Khasinau, Sark did admire the man's controlled coldness. It reminded him of his own facade that he had put up at the museum. Sark knew he had to adopt and maintain such a facade, even as extreme as Khasinau's, to not just survive his new environment, but to thrive in it.

            "Mr. Sark." Khasinau and the whole organization seemed hell-bent on using such forced pleasantries as courtesy titles, but Sark abided by it.

            "Yes sir," he responded automatically. Sark wore one of his suits that Henry bought him. The new wardrobe had confirmed to Sark that Henry planned to send him away. Sark shook his head, and focused on Khasinau. Henry was the past, for at least a month now.

            "Tonight we'll have a training mission," Khasinau said. He handed Sark a folder. "There's your mission specs and profile. Be ready at 7 o'clock." 

            "Yes, Mr. Khasinau," Sark responded. He didn't look at the folder until Khasinau left.

            He was to infiltrate a warehouse and download data on a weapons system. Eight perimeter guards and 4 interior ones; he'd go solo, and take care of himself for extraction.

            Sark studied and memorized the layout of the building and the guard schedule. As 7 p.m. approached, Sark changed into black cargo pants and longsleeve shirt. Black boots and gloves added to his invisibility. He slipped into what he called mission mode; he spoke to no one and remained focus on the goal ahead.

            He went to the supply closet at the facility and loaded up: knife, gun, 4 clips of blanks, a smoke bomb, cables and discs. He left for the warehouse at 6 p.m.

            He never knew who he would face in these training exercises. Sure, Sark had seen others at the facility, but he always had solo missions. _Guess I'm not a team player_, he thought. 

            The warehouse was patrolled just as the file said. Two guards were on the roof, and the other six circled the warehouse. Sark watched from the roof of the adjacent building. The two guards on the roof were bored. The six on the ground were a little more lively. They all looked like uniformed police, off-duty perhaps. Sark noted their positions, and left. 

            Sewers were not pleasant, but Sark found their access quite helpful. While the guards looked for nothing above him, Sark slithered through tunnels. He flashed a MagLite on his compass, noting the direction he took. He turned down one way.

            If he was right, and he liked to think that he was, Sark was beneath a drain in the warehouse. The only trouble was that he didn't know where the drain was in relation to the interior guards. 

            Sark stood beneath the drain, and just listened. Footsteps resonated throughout the warehouse, but nothing right next to him. He gently tried to push the drain covering up. It was heavy, but it gave. Every noise he made with the covering had Sark looking in every direction. Nothing.

            Quickly, he lifted himself out of the large drain hole, and replaced the cover. Crates the size of Mercedes surrounded him, and he half-dove for cover between them.

            He listened. _Nothing_. No alarm, at least. Sark took a moment to figure out where he was. From his maps, the access terminal for the information was in the south west corner. Sark started that way. 

            The room was unguarded, but he could hear voices not far away. Sark slipped inside the room, and immediately began working on a computer. 

            The voices didn't come any closer, but Sark kept his guard up. His fingers tapped quickly and lightly, directing the computer to the information he needed. He found the password in keystrokes, and quickly logged in. 

            _Come on, download!_ The information was burning to a disc. Sark looked at the room's door, hoping it wouldn't open. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, impatient and nervous. So far things were good, but something wasn't right. Sark didn't want to find out what it was.

            "Hey! Stop where you are!" The guard held his gun steady at Sark, but Sark didn't hesitate. He grabbed the nearest item and threw it at the man's head. The item, a stapler, hit the target, throwing the man off. Sark launched himself at the man, grabbing the gun and twisting it from the guard's hands. Sark followed that with a hard kick to the man's legs, and kneeing him in the head. The guard slumped to the ground.

            Sark heard a call outside the room. The others were coming. He dove for the computer. The disc was done; he threw it in a case and hid it on him. 

            His breathing started to speed up, but Sark fought down the panic. He readied his gun, ready to fire his useless blanks as warning shots at his opponents. He dove out of the room, sliding past some crates and hidden from the guards. They saw him leave though, and shots rang out around him.

            Was it just him or did they seem like live rounds? _Treat this as if it were real_, he commanded. He returned fire, and pushed himself to focus on the now. 

            The exterior guards were filing in, and Sark knew his chances were dwindling with each second. He pulled out the smoke bomb, removing the pin and flinging it away. He picked the heaviest concentration of the guards and chucked the bomb their way and started running.

            He never expected the bang. The heat and force were huge. It sent him plowing into the ground. The screams—Sark couldn't register them for a moment.

            The smoke bomb was more than that. It was a grenade. This _was_ real!

            Sark pushed away the shock threatening to come over him and ran. He ran hard and fast, and never looked back. He left from the opposite end of the warehouse, the guards nowhere to be seen but probably behind him if still alive. 

            He ran to the trees, away from all the warehouses. His extraction route was all that mattered; he reacted like a robot for now, until he was safe. He slowed when he came to a road. A car was there, waiting for him where he left it. He jumped in and drove.

            Slowly, the harshness of reality started to hit him. It hadn't been a training mission; it was all real. The supplies that previous were all blanks and harmless had been switched. The guards were . . . real. And dead.

            He'd just killed.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

            It took Sark awhile to steer the car back to the facility. He felt weighed down and flooded with mixed emotions. Anger seemed to dominate.

            Khasinau and Derevko were waiting for him when he drove into the garage. He didn't want to face them, not yet. He knew his feelings were too hot to control. Quickly, he fought back the rage that threatened him.

            "You succeeded?" Khasinau asked. Sark threw him the disc in response, not trusting his mouth. He slammed the car door and headed for the elevator up to his room.

            "Sark." It was Derevko. Sark stopped, but did not turn to face her or Khasinau. "What happened?"

            That rage was boiling now. _As if you don't know_. With a suppressing swallow, Sark turned to them.

            "I got the information. It's all there. Mission completed." He moved to leave again.

            "Were there casualties?" Derevko asked. The question surprised Sark, coming from her of all people. Sark clamped down on his tongue hard and stared ahead. "It is always a possibility, Sark."

            That did it.

            "Not on a training mission," he said. His voice was low and forced. Derevko blinked and turned to Khasinau.

            "Training?" she asked simply. Her face, which was concerned before, now turned disturbingly passive. Sark had seen enough to know _she_ was controlling herself.

            Khasinau sighed.

            "Every mission is training for him. There was no need to add pressure with the reality of the situation," he said.

            That just about blew Sark apart. But he held it together, willing himself to leave without striking his superior.

            "May I make a request, sir?" Khasinau barely nodded. "Never send me on another mission without all the facts." A thousand choice phrases surfaced in his mind, but he cut off their contact with his mouth. He gave a pointed look to both Khasinau and Derevko, and then left them.

            He shouldn't have requested anything; by doing so he was almost asking for his execution. But Sark couldn't resist, which added to the list of things bothering him.

            He killed someone. Not just one, but probably several. Sark made it to his room before the shaking started. He leaned against the door, shutting it with his weight as he slid down to the floor.

            It started with his hands, and spread like fire to his other limbs. He grasped his head, pulling at his hair. He held back the cries he wanted to release, knowing they would be wails if they surfaced. 

            His thoughts turned to the guards, who probably were unaware of the real risk in what they guarded. He thought of their families, now deprived of their brother, father, son . . . . _What have I done?_ The question tore at him as he laid himself down on the marble floor. There never would be any turning back now. He could only look forward. _Forward_.

            When he woke up, he was on his bed, still dressed in his mission gear. Derevko sat at his feet.

            She smiled when he looked at her. Sark immediately sat up, realizing she or someone had moved him from the floor.

            "You look tired," she commented generally. Sark glanced at a clock. It was 5 a.m. 

            "It's early," he stated. His voice was hoarse. "Have you . . . have you been here long, Ms. Derevko?" 

            His nervousness made her smile. "Call me Irina. In private anyway," she added. "And I just stopped by to look in on you before I left." 

            He waited for more information.

            "I'm leaving for the U.S. today. I wanted to make sure you're all right."

            Sark knew she saw weakness. He considered what to say, but she continued.

            "The first time you kill someone is always hard. Especially when things aren't as you expected. Khasinau failed to mention a pretty significant piece of information. He won't do that again." Her voice was harder when she spoke about the man. "It'll take some time, but you'll get back on your feet. It's how you overcome this that determines who you are."

            Sark stayed silent, considering what she was really telling him. Part of him doubted Derevko, or Irina, had ever felt how he did, though he was sure she had killed her share. It was becoming clear though: this was the norm. Death was now a part of him.

            "I have a cottage on a beach in Africa. Why don't you take some time off?" she said. That made Sark stare at her. After a moment of silence, he responded unwaveringly.

            "Thank you, Irina, but I best continue my training." His voice was low and his resolution undoubtable. Sark could tell she was pleased. She smiled and nodded, and left for her flight to the U.S.

            _No turning back_. His future was in place and already decided. Sark threw away the remorse, the doubts, and calmly went to sleep for another hour.

            Sark's training always continued, whether it was formally from Khasinau or by his own initiation. Mixed in were missions, operations to recover whatever file, artifact or person needed. Sark excelled at it all.

            He'd been heavily vaccinated with various diseases, some unknown to most of the world. Sark trained his body to fight off the effects, and with that he grew stronger in immunity and in mind. He could withstand any torture, but preferred other alternatives. Just the knowledge though that he could survive made him stronger, more confident.

            The facade was no longer a temporary mask, but a permanent personality. He mastered a smirk that often annoyed others to the point that they were putty in Sark's hands. 

            He changed.

            Irina put him on salary, which didn't mean he got a paycheck or stub so much as it meant he received an allowance. With it, Sark improved his tastes in clothes and food beyond what Henry taught him.

            Henry. He hardly thought of him anymore. It was past. Sark buried that away and focused.

            "How did things go last night?" Irina asked him. Sark smiled, almost seductively.

            "Perfectly." An annoyance to Irina's organization was no longer around, thanks to Sark. He had swiftly entered the target's lair, and executed him brazenly in front of his guards. The target fell before the guards could react. Once they saw Sark and his resolve, they chose not to react.

            He was the best at what he did, which was everything. He never failed; Sark had encountered his share of close calls, but nothing that had ever resulted in his demise. Everyone noticed. Irina's right-hand man was still Khasinau, but Sark was her pit bull. Sark's orders still came from Khasinau, but Sark knew who was really commanding what he did. 

            It suited him fine. Someday, when Khasinau succumbed to his uselessness, Sark would be Irina's right-hand man.

            "I have something new for you," Irina said. Her pleasure in Sark's growth and confidence was evident partly by the number of assignments she gave him.

            "Get what you need, and leave as soon as you can. There may be competition on this," she said. The file she handed Sark was thin and to the point. Sark nodded, and left for the supply room.

            After checking the specs, Sark loaded up what he needed. He checked each weapon, even test-firing it. That was the only thing that ever threatened to remind him of that night long ago. He viewed it as a lesson that he would not forget. He never blindly trusted any weapon, and he never trusted any person.

            Except for Irina, which was a gamble at times. But he knew from her tells when something was more than it seemed, and Sark knew she let him see those hints. In her way, she was telling him the truth. That was good enough for Sark, as long as he always analyzed the woman.

            The jet left as soon as Sark was ready and on board. His destination was Jerusalem, of all places. Ever since he was of any understanding, the place had been in turmoil. It easily outdid Ireland's troubles, even with the IRA and all. In the last few years, it grew worse in the Middle East. He was almost 20 now, and they were still fighting. 

            Sark pushed away politics and global awareness. The only thing that mattered about that geopolitical situation was the reminder for him not to get caught in the crossfire. 

            There was a contact in Jerusalem, in the Old City itself, who had something of value to Irina. It was another artifact, made by someone named Rambaldi. Sark had heard of the man from Irina and Khasinau, but knew nothing beyond that.

            Irina already set up a meeting with the contact; Sark had a nice some of cash to deliver in exchange for the artifact. 

            There was some risk involved; for example, walking around with 10 million dollars wasn't exactly street-smart. So Sark divided off 1 million to take in person, and had the rest ready to transfer. Sark would authorize the transfer as soon as he verified the artifact. Of course, there always was a risk of a contact getting greedy, but most of them knew not to mess with Irina's organization. Besides, no matter what, Sark could take care of himself.

            The cab driver dropped him off at the West Gate. He walked confidently through the gate, past the Wailing Wall.  In his right hand he held a briefcase with the money. It swung as he walked. 

            Sark cut through the diminishing crowds. It was getting dark, and most of the shops in the Old City were closing. He turned through the narrow passageways, all made out of cobblestone.

            His leather dress shoes clicked against the stones, and Sark straightened a sleeve of his black suit. The air was cooling down with the absence of the sun.

            He was almost there. The shop was surrounded by tourist items, like carved olive wood and trademark leather sandals. Long scarves and skirts hung for display at the open doorways of the shops. Some shopkeepers beckoned Sark; others wisely ignored him for more likely customers.

            The contact sold various jewelry at his shop. Sark stepped in as the man finished someone's purchase.

            "May I help you sir?" the contact asked. Sark glanced around the small shop for any threats. Satisfied, he responded.

            "Yes, I'm picking up a specialty item you have on hold. Under the name Sark," he added. The name alone had the effect. The contact nodded and immediately motioned for Sark to join him in back behind a cloth partition.

            The contact brought out the artifact, which Sark examined carefully. Just then, both heard someone stepping in the shop. The contact left for the front.

            Sark overheard them speaking. The customer was a woman, and her Arabic was foreign. He listened in, catching only bits of their conversation. Their voices grew closer to the back; Sark moved his right hand closer to his gun, hidden in his jacket.

            The contact reappeared with the woman behind him. She had the tip of a gun pressed to his head.

            "The artifact, please," she said. Sark momentarily froze with the sound of her voice and the look of her eyes. Her voice was confident but light. A hint of an American accent seemed present. Her eyes . . . so large and round, a vibrant brown, if there was such to be said about the color. She was dressed in typical female garb, a loose robe-like dress with a headcovering. Maybe that's why her eyes stood out.

            Sark snapped himself out of his daze.

            "Or what?" he challenged. _Business, Sark. Focus!_ The woman responded merely with more pressure against the contact's head. Sark held back a laugh, then whipped out his gun and shot the man. The contact fell instantly, leaving the woman and Sark facing each other.

            A second passed as each considered the opponent in front of them, and then the woman fired above Sark's head. He dove for the woman with the artifact in hand. He tackled her to the ground.

            She nailed him in the stomach with her elbow and reached for the artifact. Sark held it just out of reach as he tried to get up. The woman grabbed his ankle.

            As he fell down again, he snagged the headcovering. He just lay on the floor for a moment as he looked at her. He started to inventory her appearance when she aimed her gun at him. 

            Sark didn't move, though he still had his gun in hand. There was something about her, something familiar and awe-striking. Maybe it was her brazen intrusion and robbery attempt. Or maybe because she didn't seem scared of him.

            "Who are you?" she asked, gun still pointed at his chest. She was young, close to his age, but like himself, she wasn't to be underestimated. 

            "I was going to ask you the same thing. Care to answer?" he said. She smirked at him, which made Sark smile. "Guess not."

            With that, Sark lashed out his leg and connected with her hand. Her gun flew off to the side. Sark flashed her his own smirk, and quickly left the shop, artifact in hand. 

            He heard her follow him, her footsteps quickly behind him. Sark darted down an alleyway, and connected to another street as he tried to evade her.

            There was an issue with being inconspicuous. Running through the streets of Jerusalem guaranteed some attention, and not necessarily good. Sark had his gun back inside his jacket, but the briefcase was left at the shop. The artifact was in his bare hands.

            He was getting closer to the West Gate. Outside any gate was a slew of taxis, and Sark just needed one to get to the airstrip. 

            He snagged one as he heard his opponent yell out. Sark jumped in the cab and looked back. She looked frustrated, but not done. She hailed a cab.

            Sark ordered the driver to go faster, and passed him an American bill that automatically earned him respect. Then Sark grabbed his cell phone.

            "Get the jet ready, now. I'll be there in 10 minutes," Sark said. He ended the call, and turned his attention to the artifact. It was a small ball with intricate carvings on it. Sark put the ball in his suit coat, the shape and size of it creating a noticeable lump. But he needed his hands free, just in case . . .

            The woman, or girl, was behind him still. _She's persistent_. Sark logged that fact into his brain. He would have to face her again if he was going to get out of here with the artifact. 

            The taxi was coming to the airstrip. Sark looked behind him. The following cab was gone. That worried Sark; he'd rather have her close and know where she was than have her come out of nowhere.

            With that thought, Sark was jolted into the back of his seat as the taxi rammed into another car. The car was the woman's cab. It had cut in front of him. Sark tried to fight off the shakiness from the wreck quickly before—

            She was out of the car already. Sark stumbled out onto the pavement, knowing it would be over if he was trapped. She quickly came to him, a fiery look in her eyes. Sark fended off her first hit, but not the second. Her fist rammed into his face, slinging his head back. She followed-up with a kick to the side of his leg, making it buckle.

            Sark barely caught himself before his whole body landed on the road. He readied himself, and successfully dodged her next blow. She swung wide, and he easily hit her when she was off-balance. 

            The jet was 50 meters away. Sark could hear its engines whirling, ready to go as soon as he was on board.

            She swung again, making him lean back to dodge. Just then she kicked him in the side and he fell.

            When Sark looked up, she was standing over him, her gun aimed at his chest.

            "It's a good thing I fell on my back," Sark said, lightly. "I would have broken it otherwise."

            "Give me the artifact," she commanded. Sark smirked.

            "Would you?" he asked. With that, he kicked at her feet, making her trip and fall back. Sark sat up and lunged for her, pinning her down with his weight.

            "It's not too smart to be waving your gun around. This may be a private airfield, but don't think that security is any less rigid." Sark nodded to three guards headed their way. "Can I introduce you to them?" With that, Sark got up and pulled her with him.

            He shouted to the guards in Arabic. They immediately came running and took positions around the girl.

            "I'll ask them to release you, if you promise not to follow me. If not, I'll just make sure they strip-search you," Sark said. Her glare was burning into him, but Sark just smiled back.

            He was bluffing, of course. The guards were nervous about Sark too. But if he played everything right, she wouldn't know that.

            A guard spoke to him in Arabic. "You'll both need to come with us," he said. The girl smiled. Sark's bluff was blown apart. He sighed as he quickly drew his gun.

            Calmly, he fired one shot at each guard. He stopped on the girl but didn't lower the weapon.

            "What's your name?" he asked in his soft British accent. She maintained her silence. She had this fierce look in her eyes like she was about to go down heroically. "I won't shoot you if you tell me your name."

            She didn't answer at first, but her forehead crinkled in confusion. Sark sighed and shrugged as if resigned to killing her.

            "Wait!" she said, holding up her hands. Sark waited. "Sydney. My name is Sydney." Sark smiled at the success, and tried to ignore the quickened heart beat inside of him.

            "Pleasure to meet you, Sydney," he replied. He paced toward her slowly.

            "I didn't catch your name," she said. _Pretty bold considering I still have control over her fate_, Sark thought.

            "No, you didn't." With that, he hit her in the head with the side of his gun. She fell to the ground in a heap. Sark admired her in the glow from the headlights. She'd have a heck of a headache when she awoke, but she would be fine. 

            Sark walked triumphantly to the jet, quite content with himself and the evening's results. But one thing happily dominated his mind: who is Sydney?

            On the flight back, Sark analyzed his actions. _Why didn't I just kill her?_ He had plenty of opportunities, but instead let her live. And she had seen him quite clearly, both at the shop and at the airstrip. She was now a risk, a liability. Well, at least until he knew more about her. It wasn't like Sark was completely anonymous to those he dealt with. No, that was Irina's part. But something was still plaguing him about the mission.

            She _was_ gorgeous, Sark had to admit. She had long chestnut hair, straight and falling past her shoulders. At the airstrip, as they fought, it had whipped around in the air. Something about that made Sark feel . . .

_            What is wrong with you!!_ This sudden flood of emotions was sending him near out of his mind. She was his opponent, enemy! He never let any of his enemies live, especially not in the field. _But those eyes . . ._ Sark shook his head. He was getting soft, and Sark didn't like that. He had worked hard for the last two years to get where he was, and he was a perfectly oiled machine. _Until tonight_. 

            Sark sighed aloud, and shifted in the leather seat. He leaned back and went to sleep.

            Irina knew something was different, even though Sark handed over the artifact as if nothing went wrong. She smiled at him, unnerving him enough to want to spill all.

            "What happened?" she asked.  Sark loosened his tie and began unloading his supplies.

            "Competition," he replied simply.

            "Who? FTL? K-Directorate?" she persisted. Sark shook his head.

            "I don't think so. She was American." 

            "She?" Sark chided himself silently. He hadn't meant to let that slip. "There aren't too many active female operatives that I'd expect sent on this mission. Who was she?" Irina asked.

            Sark sighed and looked up from his supplies. And something hit him.

            That long brown hair, the dark eyes and smooth skin. Irina saw something was spooking him.

            "What?" she persisted. Sark swallowed and barely muttered:

            "She was you." 


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

            "What?" Irina asked. Her face showed honest confusion, something Sark had never seen.

            "Her name is Sydney," Sark said. He searched Irina's face for answers. Instead, she started to pace around the room.

            "Sydney," she repeated. That was the last thing she said for three minutes. Sark's eyes followed her as she made circles around the room.

            _Why . . . how . . . no, it couldn't . . ._

            "Who is Sydney?" Sark asked, breaking the long silence. 

            Irina looked at him. She was considering what to tell him, Sark knew. Would it be the truth or mere clues? Sark leaned toward a mixture of the two.

            "Sydney is my daughter. She lives in Los Angeles, last time I checked," she started. The alarming idea that Irina reproduced made Sark momentarily feel that the world would be shred to pieces. _A daughter_, Sark thought. _That explains her abilities_. 

            "Why was she after the artifact?" Sark asked. 

            Irina sighed.

            "I'm not sure. She was going to school and working at a bank this time last year."

            "It seems she's in the industry now," Sark observed aloud. Irina nodded.

            "But which part?" she asked to no one. She turned to Sark. "Go to L.A. Find her and find out who she's working for."

            Sark nodded, but didn't leave. Both he and Irina stood still, pondering the latest.

            "Good you didn't kill her," Irina added. They both nodded, staring at the floor.  

            The last time Sark was in California, he assassinated a man who tried to go back on a deal with Irina. But that was in San Francisco. Los Angeles had a different air to it.

            Not just the smog, but it was more upbeat. Sark felt at home.

            He was surprised to find out where Sydney lived from the phone book. After Irina, Sark just expected a week's worth of investigating to figure out where she was.

            It was an apartment, something off of UCLA campus. She lived with a roommate, quite the socialite judging by her constant comings and goings. Sydney left early and came home late, Sark guessed. He only caught her coming home the first day he staked them out.

            Sark decided to plant a couple of bugs the next day. Sydney left at 7 a.m., and headed for classes. After following her to her first class, Sark turned back and waited outside the apartment for the roommate to leave.

            She left at 10 a.m. _Late riser_, Sark thought. 

            There were simple locks on the door, nothing beyond the standard deadbolt. Sark easily got in, and started searching for places to plant the bugs.

            The decor was mature for college students. Sark attributed that to whatever it was that Sydney was involved in.

            The living room and kitchen were open to each other–_Perfect. _Sark put a bug in the smoke alarm covering the rooms. He moved on to find out which bedroom was Sydney's.

            Which wasn't hard. The roommate's room had all the tells of a normal college student. A movie poster, vintage clothing strewn everywhere, an answering machine full of boys asking her out—her name was Francie, according to the machine.

            So Sark went to the other bedroom.

            It was neat and simply elegant. Her bed was made and straightened in almost an anal way. Her clothes were all folded neatly in drawers or hung in her closet. It was exactly the control he expected from Sydney. 

            Sark was placing the bug on her nightstand when he heard the front door open.

            Footsteps walked back to the rooms. Sark silently scrambled for the closet.

            It was her. _Sydney_. Well, Sark couldn't see her, but he knew it was her. Sark buried himself in the back of the closet, and held his breath as he waited to be discovered.

            _I can't be discovered_, he thought. For one, well, she would probably recognize him and not be too pleased, especially after that hit to the head. Second of all, he couldn't tip his hand without knowing who she was and worked for. And lastly, Sark never got caught. He intended to keep it that way.

            That, of course, depended on what Sydney was doing home during the day.

            He could hear her rummaging around, opening drawers and zipping something up. _Suitcase_. She was going on another mission.

            A cell phone rang, and for a brutal second, Sark thought it was his. He forced himself not to jump, and listened as Sydney answered.

            "Hi." She paused. "Yes, I got your page. I'm just packing and I'll be right in." Another pause. "Thanks, Mr. Sloane."

_            Sloane?_ He wasn't familiar with anyone by that name.

            Sydney was coming to the closet. Sark's control over the situation diminished as he struggled not to panic. _Knock her out_, he told himself. The closet door was opening; Sark froze.

            The phone rang again, this time the land line. The door remained ajar, showing Sark the open hallway. He could slip out, if her back was turned away. 

            He moved a millimeter at a time as he listened to her conversation.

            "Oh, I totally forgot about that." She sighed. "Can we work on the presentation when I get back?" A pause. "I'm leaving for an overnight trip for my job."

            Sark peaked around the closet door. Her back was to him. He thought about how beautiful she looked; she was wearing black dress pants and a blue button-down—

            _Sark__!!!!!!_ He stopped his staring and moved to the hallway. He silently praised himself for wearing casual Docs, which were much quieter than his usual slick-soled dress shoes. He retreated down the hallway and headed for the door when he heard something.

            "Oh, I work for a bank," he heard Sydney say. _A bank?_ It had to be a cover company. Sark stopped to listen for more when he hit a loose floorboard. 

            The creak was like a car crash to him. Sark froze.

            And Sydney stopped mid-sentence. "Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow," she finished. Sark heard her hang up.

            She walked out into the living room.

            "Francie?" she called out. From Sark's spot, he could see her holding a gun. _She's making sure she doesn't kill her roommate. Or reveal who she really is_, Sark analyzed.

            She swept the room, and headed his direction. Sark was crouched behind a couch, of all things. It was only a matter of time.

            He whipped out his cell phone, and quickly dialed the number he'd seen in the yellow pages. He held his breath as he waited for the home phone to ring.

            It did. Sydney stopped. She was facing his direction, probably checking everything in general. He didn't dare look; he imagined if he popped his head out, she'd instantly shoot it. Her mother would have. 

            After the third ring, she sighed aloud. Sark heard her click on her gun's safety as she moved for a phone.

            By a stroke of luck, not the first he'd experienced today, Sydney went back to her bedroom. Sark counted to three before moving. He cautiously peeked around the corner down the hallway, making sure she was there.

            "Hello," he heard her say. Sark quickly hit the 'End' button and moved for the front door.

            Of all the stupid things he'd ever done, this ranked up there. Sark almost thought his bank robbery when he was 17 was better than that sloppy infiltration of Sydney's apartment.

            He had to rely on _luck_—of all things!!  Luck wasn't something Sark sought out or a theory to which he subscribed. It went hand-in-hand with destiny, fate. Sark only relied on actions; whatever happened was because he or someone else made it so.

            Except today, when he had to admit he was lucky. He started to feel ill.

            Ordinarily, he would have followed Sydney to whatever bank, but frankly, now was not the time.

            Well, it was, except he felt so clumsy and incompetent, he didn't dare test the situation any further. 

            He knew enough to start finding answers. That was a quest he would start later though. For now, he drove to his hotel and took a long bath.

            The luxury of a bath was something comparable to a fine wine. Though baths were just scented and bubbly water, they held a special place for him. Maybe it shared something of importance to him because he often enjoyed them with a good glass of wine. 

            Sark just about shot something when the hotel room service questioned Sark on the wine. _Was he old enough?_ the man had asked. Sark wasn't about to be carded like an American teenager, though technically he was a teen. Sark threw in the rich card to get the wine he desired. The fact that he was near the top floor in a $1000/night suite promptly shut out any questions.

            _Sydney_. Her name randomly popped into his mind as he sipped the wine. She looked so professional but yet so vulnerable. That blue shirt, the slimming pants . . . not like she needed to look slimmer, Sark justified in his mind. She was stunning, and in top form. He knew that from Jerusalem.

            Sark had been in her house. He was less than a foot away from her at one point. He'd been that clumsy.

            He changed the course of his thoughts, not wanting to berate himself any more for the night. _Sloane_. Who was this Sloane? Sark grabbed his cell phone, which was by his gun. Both were within reach from the bathtub.

            "Yes. Find out what you can about someone named Sloane. The front could be a bank," Sark ordered. "Call me as soon as you know anything."

            _Delegation_. It elated him to avoid research. He wasn't an analyst/research-type; he was the point-man.

            The point-man threw back the rest of the wine and chucked the glass at the bathroom wall. It shattered onto the marble floor. With that, Sark closed his eyes. And the first image his mind threw at him was Sydney.

            _Sydney_. She was the first female subject to distract him so much from an assignment. Granted, she _was_ the assignment. But she was messing with his head.

            Sark never got distracted. He'd followed other women before, trying to get some sort of info from them or as cover for access to some goal. But he never felt anything. He never cared how they would feel later. Women were beautiful, sure, but nothing distracted Sark from the objective.

            Until now. He lay in the plush bed of a five-star hotel, and instead of thinking about who her employer was, he thought just about her.

            In Jerusalem, she had the upper hand. She could have shot him the moment she demanded the artifact. But instead, she let him live.

            _Maybe she let me live because she's attracted to me_, Sark thought. His reaction to that thought was a firm mental slap that made him shake his head against the hotel pillow. _Or maybe, she isn't the killing sort_. Sark chewed on that for a bit. 

            She had threatened death but never delivered. Instead, Sark had shot the human shield she used. He replayed that moment in his head.

            Was it just his softening imagination, or did she disapprove of that?

            _Of course she disapproved! You called her bluff!_ But then she was bluffing. 

            Sark shook his head, trying to gain some clarity. _Where am I going with all this?_ he asked himself.

            Their fight later at the airstrip was quite heated, he thought. She was frustrated and showed it openly. Her reserve and control broke when he threatened a strip-search. Moments like that were proof of the game both were involved in. Sark had to admit that he even enjoyed the encounter. She was even a bit of a challenge. _Irina's daughter—of course she was a challenge!_

            He froze as a new realization came together. _Irina_. Sydney was her daughter, but Irina would have won in the Jerusalem situation. She would have killed and conquered. Sydney didn't.

            Sydney had lines she didn't cross. _And that means . . . _ She was softer than Irina, than him. She was human.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

            He ditched the suit and tie for the day and went with some khakis and a black dress shirt. Sark wore it untucked and buttoned-down.

            As he dressed, Sark kept thinking about his conclusions. _She's human_. That was rare, in this business._ Maybe that humanity stems from a belief that she believes she's doing what's right._

            _Government_. She had to be with some government agency. Sark picked up the phone.

            "What have you found?" He listened for several minutes, then hung up and quickly left his room.

            He parked across the street from Credit Dauphine. It was a pretty ritzy bank. There was a parking garage underneath the building. The building itself was about 5 stories high; not enough to run any decent operation. _It has to be underneath the building too_. 

            Sark started the engine and moved the car to beneath the building. 

            The garage looked normal enough. Sark drove through it, but stopped suddenly. There was a concrete wall that would have seemed like just a wall if there weren't an access keypad in front of it. That, and there were lines on the pavement going beyond the wall. 

            He noticed the cameras, and moved on. _It's there_. 

            "What do you know?" Irina's voice over the phone was just as authoritative as in person. Sark was in his hotel suite, sprawled out on the bed as he analyzed what he knew.

            "The bank is a cover for a division of the Alliance. Sydney said something about Sloane, who is the director at the division SD-6," Sark said. He waited for Irina to ask how he heard what Sydney said, but thankfully she didn't.

            "You've confirmed the existence of the operation at the bank?" she asked.

            "Yes, as much as I can without getting caught," he said. He waited for Irina's next words, knowing what would follow from it.

            "The SD cells have few members who know about the Alliance. Part of their success comes from the efforts of people who don't know about the Alliance at all." She paused, and Sark continued her thought aloud.

            "The agents of the SD cells are supposedly under the impression that they work for their country. Based on what I've observed, Sydney believes she's a covert operative for the U.S. government." Sark could guess what Irina was thinking. It involved some degree of revenge and liberation of Sydney's ignorance. _No one messes with Irina, or her daughter_.

            "Should I continue following her?" Sark asked.

            "No. I have an assignment for you. You'll probably encounter Sydney on it anyway. Come back," Irina said and promptly hung up.

            Sark stared at the vaulted ceiling over the bed. _You'll probably encounter Sydney_ . . . There was a degree of professional nervousness that came over him. Either that, or he was excited about the idea. He wouldn't admit to either reaction.

            Sark rolled off the bed and began packing.

            He was in the training room at Irina's facility. Sark already knew the details of his mission, and it was nothing he would normally worry about. But the idea of coming up against Sydney made him want to brush up on his skills.

            Three target sheets were already shredded by his practice. He moved on to freestyle fighting with a punching bag.

            His white shirt was already damp from exertion, but Sark continued a tirade of creative kicks and punches. His muscles burned; he pushed himself harder, connecting with each hit. The impact didn't faze him, or he didn't let it.

            He spun on one foot, whipping around his other leg and slamming it hard against the bag. As it swung back, Sark switched legs and did a roundhouse kick. He followed up with several punches.

            It wasn't just physical training; inside he was prepping himself for the game-face mode. He was imagining facing Sydney and not faltering again. He couldn't allow her to get so close on this one.

            His senses kicked in as he punched. Someone was watching him. Sark continued to punch and kick for another minute, then stopped and faced the intruder.

            _Irina_. 

            "You're just purchasing the formula, Sark. You shouldn't have to fight at all," she said lightly. 

            Sark wiped some sweat off his forehead as he gained control over his breathing.

            "I'd rather be prepared," he said.

            "For Sydney," Irina added. Sark gave a short nod.

            "She had several opportunities to kill me last time. That won't happen again," he said strongly. He paced around the floor mats, shaking a limb here and there to keep himself loose. Irina watched, her eyes reading into him.

            "Her abilities unnerve you," Irina said. "Or it is more than that?" Sark looked directly at Irina.

            He thought about challenging her on that, but frankly didn't want to go into the analysis of Sydney or himself. 

            "You should rest. The jet leaves in a couple of hours," Irina said, backing off mercifully. She turned to leave, but stopped and said over her shoulder: "She's not to be hurt, Sark."

            Sark watched as Irina left after that. One thought entered his mind, an expression he heard frequently on UCLA campus: _Duh!_

            The jet touched down in London, and Sark immediately left for the Thames river. A spot of bad weather had made the plane late in landing, and that made Sark rush to get to the meeting.

            Lucas Pierson was selling a nice little formula for a chemical weapon, and knew enough to offer it to Irina's organization first. However, that didn't mean other offers didn't come in. The price increased, and Sark carried instructions to an account with $15 million in it. 

            Pierson was selling it during a party aboard his yacht. Sark boarded it close to midnight via water taxi.

            His mask was in place; Sark wore an impeccable black suit with a burgundy shirt. No tie was necessary. He had to admit he looked pretty intimidating. That was the idea, anyway. Instant respect, by whatever means, was necessary to avoid being swindled or killed.

            Pierson should know better, but one can never be too careful.

            The yacht moved at a leisurely pace, which was wise considering how drunk many of the partygoers were. Any faster, and they undoubtedly would fall overboard.

            A waiter offered him a drink, which he took but didn't sip. Sark held the glass in hand and walked around calmly, looking for Pierson.

            _There._ Pierson was at the bow of the yacht, talking with a beautiful blonde woman. Sark approached them, but didn't interrupt.

            Pierson recognized him instantly and dismissed the blonde. 

            "Mr. Sark," he greeted. Sark thought he saw the blonde glance back. "I trust your journey here was pleasant." 

            Sark nodded.

            "Yes. Do you have my purchase?" Sark asked, immediately cutting out the bull and getting to business. Pierson nodded, and started to the interior cabins.

            "You have the money, of course," Pierson said, but Sark knew it was a question. 

            "After I see the formula, you'll get it," Sark said with just a touch of harshness to remind Pierson who was in charge.

            They stopped in front of a cabin door, and Pierson paused, fishing through his jacket.

            "Where is the key?" he muttered to himself. Sark pursed his lips together, annoyed by the man's incompetence. "I had it in here, I thought . . ." 

            Then it hit Sark.

            "The blonde," he said aloud. _Sydney_. Sark stepped back, and kicked the door in. 

            He caught a glimpse of her dress and legs slipping out a window to the deck. Pierson checked his laptop.

            "She erased it!!" 

            Sark felt an instant headache come on. He kept a cool but controlling look on his face.

            "Is there another copy?" he asked. Pierson didn't answer, which was an answer in itself. "Then we're done."

            Sark really wanted to shoot the man, but he had other business.

            By the time he got on deck, Sydney was on a little motorized raft, heading in the opposite direction from the yacht.

            Sark looked where he boarded, and spotted another boat. He ran to it, and threw the man guarding it into the river.

            The boat was small but fast. It definitely had more power than Sydney's. He was only 50 feet behind her, and by the look on her face when she glanced over her shoulder, she knew it. Sydney approached a bridge.

            She stopped underneath it. Sark couldn't see what else.

            When he pulled along side Sydney's raft, she was gone. Sark looked up at the bridge, but didn't see any evidence of her climbing. There were no other access points. 

            _The water_. Sark leaned over the edge of the boat. The water was broken, with air bubbles surfacing from below. Sark even saw a flashlight beam.

            She was swimming underwater. Sark groaned. His suit was going to suffer for this. He removed his jacket, chucking it to the side. He rolled up his sleeves, and for a brief moment wondered if chasing after Sydney was a good idea.

            _You have to_. He failed, and he wanted to correct that, immediately.

            He dove in head first, following the light.

            The water was murky. Rivers in the middle of the city never were clean. But Sark could see Sydney kicking her way down towards . . . some sort of tunnel.

            She slipped through a grate, into the tunnel system.

            Sark went through 30 seconds later. His lungs were starting to burn. He hoped there was air on the other side of the grate.

            He could see light above him, and kicked furiously up to the surface.

            The air was damp and less than pleasant, but Sark drank it in like water. He was in the tunnel. It was made of stone, and he could see some sort of plants struggling to grow through the cracks. Light from the street lamps shone down on him, but it was too high up to access the street.

            _That means she's trapped here too,_ Sark thought.

            There was splashing ahead of him. Sark started to swim after the noise. The tunnel curved, and Sark followed it around.

            _There she is!_ Sydney was swimming quickly through the tunnel, which was impressive considering she was wearing the dress still. 

            "Sydney!" Sark yelled out, partially in warning her not to mess with him. Her wig was gone now, floating back to him as he continued his strokes after Sydney.

            She ignored him and just swam harder. 

            Then suddenly she slowed her pace. Sark almost stopped too, wondering what her reason was for letting him catch up.

            That's when he heard it.

            The storm that had delayed his flight was now moving in on London. Thunder pounded above and reverberated throughout the tunnels.

            _What's that? _Sark thought. It sounded like someone swimming after them, or—

            _Crap_.

            Water rushed at him, spilling from drains from the street. The rain was pouring down above them, and now fell through to the tunnels.

            The force of the water coming was like a flood wave, and it pushed him under and forward. His body hit against the stone walls; he almost heard the tear of the stone into his clothes and flesh.

            He hit something else, something softer. _Sydney_? He thought about swiping the formula off of her, but the rushing water was making it difficult to breathe. Stealing at this point was out.

            He kept being pushed forward, but he desperately needed to move _up_. The tunnel had to be filling up, but until it leveled out, Sark knew he'd just be at the water's mercy.

            Finally, he kicked hard to what he thought was the top of the wave of street and rain water. He broke free for a moment, and quickly took a breath before he fell under again. 

            Sydney was doing the same.

            They bumped into each other again, and Sark took the opportunity to grab on. He felt her struggling, or maybe that was just the water.

            Suddenly, Sark's leg got caught, stopping the rest of him and Sydney as he held her. He felt for whatever stopped him. It was hard, metallic.

            _Ladder_, he thought. The water kept rushing by, but it was starting to slow down and level off. Sark reached up with his free hand, and pulled himself up by one of the rungs. 

            Sydney started to struggle, but stopped when she realized this could be their way out.

            Sark climbed the best he could, but his scrape with the wall made things painful. His left arm was torn up and the left side of his torso. He also still had a hold on Sydney behind him. The water whirled by them, but he was close to the top of the tunnel.

            _Why am I helping her?_ he suddenly thought. _Oh yeah—she has the formula. And she's the boss's daughter._

            "Let me go–I can climb myself," Sydney said above the noise. Sark didn't answer but kept climbing.

            "I'm just dragging you down, Sark," she said. Sark's head snapped down at her at that. _She must have picked up my name when Pierson greeted me_.

            "I don't trust you," he answered rather softly, especially considering the loud roar of the water around them.

            The drain above them still poured down water and whatever debris lay on the streets. But Sark reached the top of the ladder.

            The drain cover was barely in his reach, and Sark stretched to try and move it.

            Just then, the rain water dropped a rat on him.

            Sark was proud that he didn't shriek out loud, but he did quickly retract his hand.

            And in that process, he slipped. He fell with a yelp into the cold tunnel's water, with Sydney in tow. 

            He never let go of her, despite their situation. But moments later they suddenly fell, again.

            The tunnel opened up and drained out into the river. It was a 7-foot drop, but it still surprised Sark.

            His injuries stung as he side-crawled to the riverbank. His grip on Sydney was weak, but she didn't fight. She seemed exhausted too, to Sark's relief.

            They both crawled on the riverbank, still heaving from their ordeal. The rain continued to fall heavily, which Sark enjoyed. _Anything to wash off that stench from the tunnels_. Sark gave himself a second before beginning the confrontation.

            "Give me the formula, Sydney," he said, pinning her shoulders to the ground. He tried his best intimidation face, but he must have looked pathetic. She started laughing.

            "Why, _Mr._ Sark? Because you said so?" She laughed again. Sark mentally inventoried his appearance. He _must_ look pathetic—his shirt was ripped, his arm and side were bleeding, he was drenched in river water and whatever else, and he had no weapon.

            "Besides, my backup's here," she added. Sark whipped his head up just in time to see an arm swinging down and feeling the crash on his head.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

            It had been awhile since he'd woken up from being knocked out. Last time was when he was first recruited into Irina's organization. 

            But she did not wait for him when he woke. In her place was her daughter.

            His head throbbed, but he tried not to let it show. He seemed to be in a cargo plane. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

            "Miss Bristow, may I ask where we are going?" he said as politely as he could.

            She hid her surprise well.

            "I only gave you my first name. You've been reading up on me, Sark?" she asked. "Oddly enough, we don't have a file on you."

            "Hence my capture, and probable interrogation," Sark filled in. He didn't know why he was having this banter with her, but it made his situation more bearable.

            "Probable, yes. We're going to my agency," Sydney said. Sark was a bit surprised by how straightforward she was being.

            "What, Los Angeles? Come on, Sydney, just give me the formula and I'll be out of your gorgeous hair," Sark said. _Gorgeous hair? What was _that?!

            Whatever it was, it was working. Sydney almost blushed at that. _Must be my good looks_, Sark thought to himself. He looked himself over; he was leaned up against a wall of the plane. His hands were bound behind his back, and his feet were chained. Two guards stood nearby, with the guns ready and drawn. His clothes were mostly dry, indicating he'd been out awhile. His burgundy ripped shirt was stained darker with his blood around his injuries. Those injuries were still exposed. _Okay, maybe not my looks_.

            "You're crazy if you think I'll just hand you the formula and let you go," Sydney replied sternly. Her eyes were hard, but her jaw was clenched just a bit too tight. Sark smiled inwardly at his growing success in getting under her skin.

            "You owe me the formula. You've ruined my suit and shirt. Because of you, I came close to drowning, got cut up, and all this even after I saved your life," Sark said confidently. 

            "Saved my life? You only held onto me because 'I don't trust you,'" she said. She even imitated his accent.

            "Who says it wasn't because I thought you were beautiful?" He couldn't believe he said that. _Trouble, __Sark__. Shut up now before she plays you_.

            She hesitated, obviously thrown by his words. Suddenly she closed the distance between them and hit him hard with a left hook.

            Sark's head snapped back, and he stumbled to not fall on the floor. He fell anyway on his left and injured side.

            The impact made him wince as the pain vibrated through his wounds. His head just throbbed harder.

            "Thank you," Sark said between groans. "My head feels so much better."

            "Sydney." Someone in a different part of the plane called her. Sark looked for the voice. It was a black man, with a very stately jaw line and stern determination in his eyes. 

            He must have had some rank over her. Sark watched as Sydney followed the man away. As soon as she was out of sight, Sark tried to sit up. The guards around him tightened their grips on the guns aimed at him. Sark sighed.

            "I'm just trying to sit up, gentlemen. No need to get trigger-happy," he said. With more than a bit of effort, Sark settled on sitting on the floor and leaning against his previous spot.

            He started to think. _Sloppy. I'm letting my pressure to succeed make me sloppy._

_            Or is it __Sydney__?_ Sark hated it when the brutally-honest side of his brain woke up. Sure, Sydney was beautiful. But she was _not_ getting in the way of him doing his job.

            _Which is why you have the formula now, and she doesn't_. 

            _Shut up!_ he told himself. Yes, Sydney was a challenge, but he did save them in that tunnel.

            _Until you dropped yourself in the water again._

            Dang it!! _It was the rat's fault_. 

            Sark closed his eyes, trying to shut up his mind.

            _Forget it. What now?_ He had to get out of SD-6's control. The CIA would be less worrisome, but Sark doubted the Alliance was hospitable to those it captured.

            Not that he minded torture. _Not like you like it either_. But he could survive it. Even better, he could thrive in any situation.

            Then the idea came to him.

            The guards thought he was crazy or stupid to ask for Sydney (or anything for that matter), but after his persistence, Sydney faced Sark.

            "What do you want?" she asked testily. Sark admired that fire in her eyes already lighting up. 

            Sark gently rubbed the side of his face against his shoulder. It was where she hit him, and Sark noticed the slightly guilt-laden look she let show from his movement. 

            "Can we speak in private?" he asked, nodding at the guards. Sydney bit her lip.

            "They can hear whatever you have to say," she replied. She was already considering it favorably, and Sark pressed on.

            He leaned toward her as if to whisper.

            "They keep eyeing me in a disturbing manner. I'll leave it at that, and spare you details." Sark leaned back and watched as she nodded for the guards to give them space. They moved within sight of Sark, but out of earshot.

            "Thank you," Sark said. "Now, what would your agency want from me?" he asked in an overly polite tone. It bordered on sarcasm, but only if she really analyzed it.

            Her response was quick and automatic. "Justice–you're a terrorist." Sark chuckled at that while carefully monitoring her reaction.

            "True. But who says your agency is any better?" 

            Her forehead wrinkled in anger. 

            "The US government is hardly composed of terrorist-material." She said it, but there was no conviction behind it.

            "Sydney, you have to put your back into it if you want me to believe you," Sark said softly. "Every agency acts questionably, all in the name of their country and freedom."

            "At least I have a country. I haven't betrayed it, unlike some terrorists-for-hire," she shot back. That fury was starting to bubble, and Sark loved it.

            "Yes you have," Sark said, waiting for the punch his words would give her.

            She was speechless for a moment; then that fury started to show again. She took a firm step toward him, her arms at her sides with her fists clenched.

            "You have no idea what I do or what my agency does, you sick—"

            "No need to get so testy, Miss Bristow," Sark soothed with his creamy accent. _Definitely more passionate than Irina, or less controlled at least_. "I _do_ know what you do. It's you who is in the dark."

            He watched her as she calmed for a moment, practically willing herself to be under control. A part of her analyzed what he said, but he could see the blind eagerness push any doubts aside.

            "And just what is that supposed to mean?" she asked. Her tone was somewhat curious but she tried masking that with attitude.

            They were interrupted.

            "Sydney, we're about to land," the same agent said. 

            "I'm coming, Dixon," she replied. But she didn't turn away. She waited for an answer from Sark.

            "I'll tell you later, Miss Bristow," Sark said with a seductive grin and a wink. Her eyes narrowed at him, and with a slight huff she left him.

            Sark knew she wouldn't do anything about what he had said other than think he was crazy. But he knew he made a connection with her. Even if that connection was annoyance, it was enough to make her think about him. 

            As a potential source of information, of course. 

            The landing was a bit rough, but maybe that's because Sark was the only passenger without a seatbelt. No one really seemed to care if he was bumped around like a rag doll. The guards even smiled at his plight.

            _They won't smile for long_, Sark thought.

            From the cargo plane, Sark was pushed into a dark SUV. Sydney and the other man, Dixon, rode ahead of him in another car. Escorting him were his favorite guards.

            _Perfect_.             

            Sark waited until they were in the middle of Los Angeles. He'd already got his hands free from the cuffs. As a result, his thumb was out of place, but that was minimal.

            He couldn't do much about his feet without the guards noticing. One guard was to his right and the other in the front passenger seat. The driver wasn't armed, from what Sark could tell.

            Sydney and Dixon went through a yellow light while his escort remained behind. Sark waited until the car started going again with the green light.

            He jabbed his right elbow into the guard's side, and lunged forward to the other guard. His left arm wrapped around the man's neck until he heard the throat being crushed. Meanwhile, Sark used his right hand to deliver a chop to the first guard's throat. 

            Both guards were dead in less than 10 seconds. The driver swerved to the side to stop, but in the panic of the moment, crashed into a parked car. 

            Though slightly dazed by the impact, Sark managed to grab one of the guards' guns. He shot the driver through the back of the seat.

            Sark dug through pockets. _Keys, keys_. He found them at last, and quickly undid the chains around his feet.

            Bystanders started to peer in.

            "Are you all right?" someone asked, while another asked if the others were alive. Sark slipped into a role.

            "Yes, thank you. I think they're unconscious." Someone opened a door and helped him out. He thanked them, then started back away from the scene.

            He heard shrieks as he ran away. _Probably figured it out_, he thought. It didn't matter now. He was free again.

            Irina was sitting patiently in an arm chair in his room when he came in. He wore new clothing, but hadn't showered or fixed himself up since the botched-up mission.

            "Are you all right?" she asked. Sark walked past her into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

            "Yes. Do you mind if I get cleaned up," he said. It was more of a courtesy, telling her what he was doing, but he knew she wouldn't mind.

            "Do you mind if I stay and chat," she replied. He took off his shirt in answer. She noticed his wounds.

            "I'll call for some bandages." With that, she turned away from him as Sark undressed in the bathroom and stepped in the shower. Though he knew she wouldn't ogle him, he had never felt more grateful for the frosted glass shower door.

            The hot water seared his wounds, but he welcomed the pain in the cleansing. The stench of the tunnels, the river, and his blood washed away.

            "I didn't get the formula," Sark called out. He winced when the shampoo lather spilled into his eyes. He knew that Irina knew about his failure, but he suspected that information on her daughter was what she really wanted now.

            "How did she do?" she asked. Sark rinsed out his blond hair, more dirty than it'd ever been.

            "You mean beyond getting the formula?" Sark said. "She was remarkable. She fooled me for a bit at the meeting point. And obviously, she whipped me pretty well."

            "Your injuries?" Irina asked. Sark shook off the water as he grabbed a towel.

            "No, that was something else. But she did well. A formidable adversary," Sark said. He stepped out of the shower, wrapped in his towel.

            Irina eyed his side and arm. "Come here." She held up some antiseptic and a bandage. Sark sat by her on the arm of the chair.

            "You told her about SD-6?" Irina asked as she dabbed his side and arm with the alcohol. Sark flinched.

            "No, but I planted the seed, so to speak." Irina nodded approvingly. She pulled the edge of the towel down a bit, dabbing him more where the wound extended on his hip. The towel had spots of red on it now.

            As she applied bandages over his arm and side, Sark could tell she was strategizing about Sydney. She finished up, and watched as Sark walked to his closet.         

            He picked out another dark suit, but stopped when she spoke.

            "You should rest today. We'll speak later on," she said, getting up. "Sydney needs to know the truth about SD-6. When she does, she'll work with us."

            Sark stared after his boss, but doubted her words. He knew Sydney couldn't fathom working for the enemy. And because of that, he knew he'd be caught in a crossfire sometime soon.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

            The Sydney subject rested for a few weeks. Though Sark knew Irina was scheming, there was other work to be done.

            That work was interrupted one day by a simple phone call.

            "Yes," Sark answered. The voice on the line was direct.

            "I've been monitoring Bristow's apartment, but nothing of importance has surfaced," the person said.

            Sark wasn't surprised. He hadn't been sent away for any important business since the last mission.

            "Very well. Keep monitoring the audio, and contact me immediately if anything arises," Sark instructed. He was ready to hang up when his asset continued.

            "Do you want the audio files I have so far?" 

            He paused to consider that. "Yes, send them over."

            Sark turned to his computer and logged into a particular site. After it loaded, he opened up an decryption program. The files lay before him.

            He downloaded each one, knowing they were long and most likely pointless. But Sark couldn't resist the temptation to learn more about Sydney.

            He played them in the background as he continued to work. His asset was good enough to edit out the meaningless audio when no one was home.

            Just hearing Sydney's voice made Sark sit up straighter in his chair. It seemed that she always greeted her roommate, Francie, as soon as Sydney walked through the door.

            They talked about meaningless things at times—Francie's latest date and loser boyfriend, some friend named Will, and just catching up on events whenever Sydney came home from a trip.

            Which made Sark listen carefully to the audio from after his escape.

            Sydney didn't speak of it in any detail (real or made-up) until the next morning at breakfast.

            _Francie: So how was the trip?_

_Sydney__: (Pause) I ran into a competitor. _

Sark's heartbeat sped up. _That's me!_

            _Sydney__: He was very annoying, egotistical . . . cocky! That's the word for him!_

Sark wasn't sure if that shrinking in his chest was pain or pride in himself.

            _Francie: (laughs) So what, did he steal a client with a better interest rate or something?_

_Sydney__: Almost. The client was swayed by him, but stayed with me in the end._

Sark smiled at her clever elaborations. Then he froze. _Who is the client?_ For a moment, Sark thought only of the formula. _Unless she's speaking of herself being swayed . . . ._

            _Francie: He's cute, isn't he?_

_Sydney__: (pauses) Yeah, but he's still obnoxious._

_            Francie: I meant your client, Syd!_

_            Sydney: Oh, him too!_

There was clanking of silverware or whatever other ambient noise as they finished up, but Sark barely registered it.

            _Cute_. His ego swelled at that and he couldn't help but grin widely. He was glad he had the privacy of his own office now to hide that grin from anyone. _I can work with 'cute.'_

            Months went by. Sark's asset continued surveillance on Sydney's apartment. Every now and then her "trips," which signaled another mission, made Sark go to Irina, but most of the time the mission wasn't of great importance to the organization.

            Sark was actually pretty amazed at how often the missions were irrelevant. SD-6 and the Alliance weren't on top of things as much as they should be. Irina's organization was often weeks ahead of any competition. 

            And that kept him busy. He didn't have time to think about Sydney.

            Well, that didn't mean he _didn't_ think of her. Occasionally he would listen to the audio files from her apartment. But she never mentioned him.

            Nothing seemed to indicate that she took him seriously about who she worked for. Then again, he hardly gave her much to go on. She needed more, a push in the right direction. But Irina didn't want to do that yet. For whatever her reasons, Sark knew he couldn't do anything without Irina's authorization on the Sydney matter.

            That authorization finally came, but not until after the right circumstances.

            Sydney was injured on some mission. Based on the intel, Sydney went to Portugal to obtain a weapon of sorts. The people she stole it from were . . . barbarians, at best.

            "I'm sure Arvin Sloane said it was all to protect the United States," Irina had said, fuming as she relayed the details to Sark. 

            He had the presence of mind to not say anything, although inside he was starting to get riled up.

            "The next time Sydney goes out for SD-6, intercept her." Irina's voice was icy. Sark cleared his throat.

            "Am I offering her a new job?" he asked.

            Irina nodded. "Yes. But don't mention me yet. It's too soon for that." She paused. "Make sure she's not hurt."

            Sark waited for a second, then asked the question that he had been eager to ask. "How badly was she hurt in Portugal?" 

            "She was shot in the shoulder. She'll be fine," Irina stated. "Are you still monitoring her?" Sark nodded. "Let me know about her next trip." She started to leave, but stopped for a moment. "Sark. Be convincing with her. I expect her to be on our side."

            Sark called his asset, preparing for the coming operation. He started typing down tentative plans, alternate contingencies and possible scenarios. 

            "I need you to monitor Sydney Bristow's apartment around the clock," Sark said. "As soon as she says anything about leaving for a trip, let me know. You have my number." With that he hung up.

            _How am I going to convince her to work for Irina?_ Sark thought. Sydney was . . . pure. Well, first of all, she wouldn't believe him about SD-6 being part of the Alliance. _Hurdle number one. _Then she would question who he was and if his employer was any better. _I could tell her I'm with British intelligence_. That wouldn't work either—Sydney, no matter what lie Sark gave her, would try to verify anything he said.

            _So honesty . . ._ That would be a first for him, in a long time. On a mission anyway–he was almost always honest with Irina. But she had that effect on him. _Like mother, like daughter_.

            _Think, __Sark__!_ Suddenly, he recalled what Sydney had said from the audio files. _Cute_. He would have to use that.

            The call came insanely early one morning. Sark's asset said Sydney was leaving immediately on a trip, supposedly to Atlanta. Sark rolled out of bed, ignored his unusually spiky hair, and threw on some clothes.

            After speaking with Irina and going over new intel, Sark was on a plane to southern Brazil. Based on the daily intelligence brief, they figured out that SD-6 was sending Sydney to a town called Livramento, in Rio Grande do Sul. The Alliance was apparently after some electronic files.

            Sydney had a head start on him, partially from being in the Western Hemisphere already. He took a flight on a faster plane, but it was going to be tight to execute any sort of advancement on Sydney. 

            He landed in Uruguay, and then took a commuter flight across the border to Brazil. The small town could only accommodate small propeller planes, which were far less reliable by his standards than the nice jets he normally used. By the time he arrived in Livramento, Sark estimated that Sydney was already in town, rested and ready.

            Sark immediately drove to the building. He circled it twice, and then he saw it. There was a rope hanging down the building's side. Sark leaned over across the passenger seat and peered out the window. Up at one of the top floors was a nice sized hole. _Probably used a laser cutter and punched the glass in_, Sark thought. 

            _She's up there_. 

            Which meant she'd be coming down soon.

            Sark hadn't seen any evidence of backup. But it was still possible they were out there. So he parked in the shadows, sat back, and waited.

            It took three minutes, and then she came dropping down from the building. Sark watched as her slim figure bounced off to her car. She got in on the driver's side. _She's alone_. Sark waited for her to disappear down the road before starting the engine.

            The streets were relatively empty, but the sidewalks were full. People from both sides of the border were mingling, eating at _churrascarias_ and _sorveterias_.  Sydney's car slowed down for some wayward, and most likely drunk, people. Sark also suspected they were getting close to her hotel. He doubted she was flying out tonight. It was too late, and flights were limited out here.

            He stayed as far back as he could without losing her. When she turned into a hotel's underground parking lot, Sark drove on by and parked on the street. 

            He was still dressed in whatever he threw on himself in the morning. He'd chosen black slacks and a black polo shirt. He was grateful for his black leather jacket; Livramento was often quite windy, and the chill in the air tugged at his bones.

            The chill subsided as he walked into the garage. He listened as he stepped carefully. He heard her walking to the elevators.

            Sark leaned against a column, hiding from her until he was sure she was unaware of his presence. Then he hurried to follow her.

            She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the elevator to arrive. Sark hid behind a car, just twenty feet from her. His gun was out and ready. As the elevator dinged, Sark rushed from his spot and jabbed the gun in Sydney's back.

            Sark saw her body tense and freeze. He knew she was waiting for an opening to take him out, but he changed the stakes by merely speaking to her.

            "Don't be alarmed, Miss Bristow. My business here is short and simple," he said. He pushed her to the elevator. "After you."

            Sydney reluctantly stepped in, her back to Sark. "Which floor?" she asked testily.

            "Yours, please," Sark replied. "We're headed to your room."

            The elevator was old and slow, which gave Sark plenty of time to remove any weapons Sydney had. He felt somewhat nervous as he frisked her. _Focus!_ He steeled himself against the threat of weakness, and replace his overly cool look on his face.

             They stepped off the elevator, and Sark followed Sydney cautiously. He didn't think she had any backup or traps in place, but he was not going to be caught off guard.

            Sydney took her time opening the room door. Sark knew she was testing him, but didn't open up any opportunities for her to surprise him. 

            As soon as she cleared the door, she yanked open a closet door, right into Sark. Sark quickly leaned back, effectively dodging the blow but losing control of Sydney at the same time.

            She dove across the king-sized bed for cover. Sark regained his balance and aimed both his gun and hers in her direction.

            "Stop right there, Miss Bristow," Sark ordered. "You're trapped in your own room with no way out but that dirty window." The window _was_ quite dirty, and not very big either. Obviously the hotel was not into the balcony-type of luxury.

            Sydney's head peaked up behind the bed."What do you want, Sark?" Her tone was already heated, and Sark couldn't help but find that really attractive.

            "Cooperation, Miss Bristow. Please sit on the bed, against the headboard," he said, motioning with one of the guns. Sydney glared at him, but complied.

            Sark approached her, dropping one gun and getting out a pair of handcuffs from his jacket. Her eyes were fiery, and he held that look, trying to read into any sudden movements. 

            He almost died when he touched her hands. He wound the cuffs between the headboard bars, and then locked in her wrists. But that didn't stop her feet. She lashed out a kick as he moved away from her. It connected with his jaw, and made him fall against the cheap TV and stand.

            His jaw felt hard yet tender. It twitched with pain. Sark steadied himself and casually leaned against the TV stand as he composed himself. He glanced at Sydney but didn't glare. If she knew how much the kick hurt or annoyed him, he would lose some control. 

            Sark put the safety on the gun and laid it on top of the TV. "Can I get you anything? Dinner or a drink?" he asked politely.

            She only narrowed her eyes at him. 

            "Maybe just the mini-bar then," Sark said. He turned and opened the little fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. He took off the cap, and was about to take a sip when he stopped.

            "Would you like some?" he asked. She didn't answer, but Sark saw her eye the bottle. He walked slowly to her. "Here." Sark put the bottle to her lips, and she tilted her head back. She drank greedily at first, and then seemed to remember her situation. Sark tried not to smirk as she controlled her gulps.

            When she finished, Sark turned and went back to leaning across from her. He drank from the same bottle, hoping to prove some sort of bond with her. He needed any help he could get.

            "I hope your current position isn't aggravating your shoulder," Sark said. She was surprised, he knew, and so he continued. "I've been keeping track of you. SD-6 should never have sent you on that mission, especially since they'll turn around and sell the weapon."

            That got her started, which was a vast improvement for Sark from her stony silence.

            "SD-6 protected millions by getting the weapon out," Sydney defended violently. "How can you accuse my agency of wrong-doing when you have murdered innocent people!"

            That stung, but Sark couldn't place why. Of course he'd killed people. That was part of his job, part of the industry. 

            "The work we do, Miss Bristow, requires the death of those in our way. You, I know, have killed your fair share." 

            She shook her head.

            "I'm talking about the driver you killed in L.A. He had a family. He was innocent—"

            "Obviously he wasn't," Sark cut in. He felt his face getting hot, and order his body to calm down. "He knew there was danger. I had two armed guards with me and I was bound. Those are pretty big clues that something's amiss."

            "You killed those guards as if they were nothing. They—"

            "—planned on taking me to your employer, an enemy. You would have done the same, Sydney, to avoid capture." Sark hadn't meant to use her first name yet, but the forceful need of justification made it slip out. He couldn't tell if he was feeling guilty and hence needed to rationalize his actions, or if he was just reacting to Sydney.

            "If you worked for the US government, you would see the difference between avoiding capture and cold-blooded murder." Her words froze in the air with her tone. The way she said "cold-blooded murder" unsettled him. _She really believes what she's saying. She thinks I'm a monster_.

            That didn't sit well with Sark either. He looked down at the floor, thinking.

            "I'm not referring to the U.S. government," Sark said quietly.

            Sydney's hard gaze suddenly filled with confusion.

            "What do you mean?"

            "SD-6 is not a part of the CIA," Sark said. She stared at him.

            "Sure. Then they're part of what?" Sydney asked with a sarcastic tone. Despite that, there was doubt in her eyes, and Sark saw it.

            "The Alliance." When she laughed, Sark continued. "You know there are more cells than SD-6. Hence, why they are numbered. So, 12 SD cells . . . the Alliance of twelve . . . are you getting the picture?"

            "Why should I trust you? You've basically kidnaped me by gunpoint and have offered nothing more than your word!" 

            _Here it is_, Sark thought. He knew she'd want some proof. And she knew she'd fight any proof. He tried a shortcut.

            "Have you ever actually seen Langley? Trained at The Farm, as they call it? Just think about it, before you shoot down the truth," Sark said. "You really have no proof that SD-6 is part of the CIA."

            "There are other people who—" she started.

            "—who have been told what you've been told. It's time to wake up, Sydney," Sark pushed. He watched as she bowed her head, thinking and also hiding her confused looks.

            "Why would you tell me this?" It was the first question to address why Sark came to her. And he knew, based on their conversation thus far, that she would fight him.

            "I want you to work with me."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

            She didn't say anything. In fact, Sark watched as her jaw almost dropped. Then she started to laugh.

            It wasn't the reaction he expected or hoped for; in fact, it unnerved him a bit. Sark shifted his weight.

            "If our roles were reversed, would you even consider this?" Sydney finally said. Sark looked down at the ground and ran a hand through his hair.

            "Yes, especially when I've learned my employer is a fraud." _Perfect answer, Sark_, he congratulated himself.

            "You can't expect me to just go off what you've told me. You certainly wouldn't do that," Sydney said. She had that stubborn look on her face to which Sark was becoming quite accustomed.

            "You're right. Not only would that be stupid, but dangerous too. So I'm prepared to offer you a chance to verify my information." Here it was—the gamble that could potentially cost Sark some serious lip from Irina if he failed.

            Sydney stared at him, a little unsure of what to think about what was coming. Sark took a deep breath.

            "My plan is to kidnap you for a bit, long enough for SD-6 to know something's gone wrong. During that time, I would like to show you what I have, to prove to you that SD-6 is part of the Alliance. Then I'll let you decide. And either way you decide, SD-6 will not suspect you of anything other than falling victim to being abducted by some rival," Sark said. He held his breath as he observed her reaction. 

            Her eyes narrowed.

            "Here's the problem, Sark," Sydney began. Anytime she said his name, Sark tried not to shiver. "You said you would show me your proof. How do I know your 'proof' isn't fabricated?"

            Her mistrust was really making him admire her more and more. Sark found her incredibly intoxicating when she suspected him.

            _Focus!_

            "This is where we truly face a dilemma. Obviously, you should conduct your own investigation," Sark said. "But equally obvious is the mistrust I must place in you. If I let you go to investigate, what assurances would I have that you would actually consider my offer and come back? Not to mention that you could set a trap for me with your employer."

            That got her to think, and hopefully realize she wasn't the only one at risk.

            "We should go, at any rate. I don't want your agency to track us," Sark said, moving toward Sydney. He stopped in front of her, considering how to handle her now. "Hmmm. This could be interesting." Sark whipped out his cell phone and called a local associate for backup.

            "Can't do it yourself, Sark?" Sydney teased after he hung up. Sark smirked.

            "You're hard to handle, and easily my equal in skill," Sark said. Sydney seemed to stop short of sticking her tongue out at him.

            "I'll take that as a compliment," she said. Sark nodded.

            "Please do."

            Two hours later, Sark and Sydney were in Uruguay, accompanied by two men loyal to Irina. The extra manpower made Sydney a lot more cooperative.

            They were at a warehouse 50 miles from the Brazilian border. As soon as Sydney was secured, Sark turned to one of the men.

            "Go buy some food, and a bottle of wine. Get something good," Sark added. He doubted the man's sense of "good" was near his when it came to wine, but Sark didn't want to deal with that now.

            "Sark!" Sydney called out. Sark turned in her direction. 

            "Yes, Miss Bristow, I'm coming," he said, partially mocking her. He walked over to where she was seated, and cuffed.

            "Let's get this over with so I can go home," Sydney said testily. "What's the deal?"

            Sark sat down opposite her.

            "The deal? I let you go to find out for yourself about SD-6. We meet at . . . Hogle Zoo, in Salt Lake City in one week. You tell me what I already know, and you come to work with me."

            "Okay, two questions: one, why Utah?" she asked. Her bewilderment was quite clear, and Sark had to hold back a laugh.

            "It's a place I doubt SD-6 will be looking for you, and I doubt the Alliance has any presence there. Your second question?" Sark prompted.

            "How do I know working for you would be any better than the supposed Alliance?"

            There was a lot of meat to the question, which made Sark respect her even more. He knew this would come up.

            "You don't. But based on what I've observed about you," Sark started, "you will want to." Sark knew that wasn't true, but he tried to be convincing anyway.

            "Based on what I've observed about you, I wouldn't want to join you," Sydney said. Her tone was calm but low. Her words had the effect of a punch on Sark.

            He knew she referred to his actions again, and a sense of guilt and shame started to surface. Sark swallowed it back, and merely smirked at her. 

            "I'm not the monster you think I am," Sark said firmly. He almost believed himself. Sydney just scoffed at that.

            "Whatever. What happens if I don't want to join you?" Sark often thought about the same question. For now, he didn't have an answer.

            "Let's not think negatively, Miss Bristow. You'll be free to go in a little while, and then you can start verifying my information." He stood up. "But I need your assurance that you will consider everything, and that you'll meet me, alone, in Salt Lake next week."

            She didn't say anything for several moments. Then she lifted up her chin in that beautifully defiant way and nodded.

            "I will."


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

            He had let her go a few hours later, and now just hoped she'd come through. Before she turned to leave, Sark almost kissed her.

            Almost. She just looked so strong, and so wildly beautiful that Sark caught himself leaning toward her.

            And then he pulled back, and mentally slapped himself. Sydney might have noticed; he just didn't know, nor didn't want to speculate for his own sanity's sake.

            It'd been six days since he let her go. Tomorrow was the meeting.

            Irina wasn't all together pleased with his plan. Between the lines, she had let Sark know that. But Sark couldn't force her to work with him, or for Irina. He'd told Irina as much, which made her get off his back for the time being.

            But if this failed, he knew Irina was going to be royally miffed.

            Hogle Zoo was hardly impressive, but it was enough of a public place to be safe and enough of a private place to hold a sensitive conversation away from eavesdroppers. 

            Sark was at the penguin pool an hour early. His palms were moist, which was a first for him. For some reason, he felt like some kid on a first date.

            _That's because you're falling for her_. Sark rolled his eyes at himself.

            He had spent a lot of time thinking about Sydney. He listened to the surveillance from her apartment, mainly, he told himself, to see if she had already returned to SD-6. There was no Sydney in the apartment, and from what the roommate, Francie, and the friend Will said she was on an extended business trip.

            Assets were reporting a lot of activity in trying to find a missing agent from SD-6. That comforted Sark to a degree.

            _She's at least been investigating, and without SD-6 knowing_. 

            Sark checked his watch. There was still plenty of time. Sydney would probably be early, but Sark didn't want to seem like he had been waiting forever.

            _Like that kid on a first date_. With that he got up, and walked around the surrounding animal cages. As he surveyed the monkeys, the camels, the polar bear, and the random peacocks running loose in front of the others, he kept looking back at the penguin pool.

            Nothing was out of place. A school group hoarded the penguins. A young couple took pictures of each other with the penguin background. They looked quite happy. Sark noticed both wore wedding rings.

            There was so much normalcy in watching the couple. Both looked happy, without many cares burdening them. Sark felt a tug in his stomach. He almost wished for that, and that made him think of Sydney.

            Could he ever settle down? Doubtful. But if it was with someone like Sydney, already in the business, and on his side . . .

            _You're assuming she'll accept, among other things_.

            He was assuming Sydney would ever think of him that way. _And you're assuming you could ever be normal, after everything you have done and are._

            _What am I?_

            His thoughts were broken as a young child suddenly bumped into him. Sark looked down to discover the kid's ice cream had connected with his pants. 

            "I'm so sorry!" came a hurried reply from the mother. She offered Sark some napkins. Sark took them with a tight smile and nodded. The child giggled as Sark wiped the mess from his dark jeans.

            The casual attire was somewhat foreign to him. They were used more often for disguise than comfort. Comfort to Sark came in the form of a nice, perfectly fitted suit. But these jeans weren't too bad. Except for the ice cream. 

            The rest of his disguise was a light blue polo shirt, sunglasses, and his leather jacket, which was essential for hiding a weapon.

            Another time check revealed that the meet was fifteen minutes away. Sark made another round near the penguins, looking for any signs of trouble. More kids, another couple, a man with a video camera, yet another couple . . .

            Sark stopped in front of the pool. The penguins were splashing around. A few darted under the water, back and forth with never-ending energy. A couple were getting out of the pool, obviously ready to lay out in the sun and cool air. And then he saw her.

            As she walked to him, Sark couldn't help but look her up and down. She was casually dressed: khakis, a t-shirt, and a jean-jacket. The simplicity of it emphasized her natural beauty. She had a neutral expression on her face, which Sark immediately tried to change.

            "Miss Bristow, you have a terrible habit of always looking stunning," he started. His playful flirt was rewarded with a self-conscious glance at her feet.

            "I came," she said. _Straight to business._

"What did you find?" 

            She looked down at her feet again, and nervously tucked her long hair behind an ear.

            "You were right. SD-6 is part of the Alliance." She paused, opened her mouth and then closed it again. She was hurt by what she found, and the way she leaked her emotions charmed Sark.

            "I'm sorry," Sark said, trying to be of some comfort. "After we met in Jerusalem, I found out what I could about you. And working for SD-6 . . . well, the odds were that you did not know the true nature of your employer." He paused, watching her absorb what he said. "I was impressed by you, in Jerusalem, and thought you deserved better."

            She looked him directly in the eye after he said that. For a brief moment, she gave a small, sad smile. It made Sark's heart melt.

            Then something sent shivers up his back. He looked around discreetly, still paying attention to Sydney, but looking for why his instincts were telling him to run.

            "You mentioned the true nature of my employer. Who is yours, and how do I know he's any better?" Sark looked over her shoulder as he listened.

            _Video camera_. The man with the camera had it pointed at the penguins before in the west end of the pool. But the penguins had moved to the east end now. The man didn't notice, and the camera hadn't moved.

            "My employer wishes to remain unknown until you've accepted," he said calmly. "Shall we take a stroll?" Sark turned and held out one arm to Sydney. She smiled with a touch of nervousness, and linked her arm in his.

            "I hear they have a lovely bird show right about now," Sark said. The bird show had about 150 people per show, and Sark would need that cover to get out. "So, you're doubting me, Sydney?" He placed a special emphasis on her name, and she noticed it.

            He felt her tense beside him, and that was his cue.

            "I should be the one doubting you, Sydney. In Uruguay, you gave me your word you wouldn't set me up." He paused, his eyes boring into her. "I trusted you, until now." The betrayal he felt threatened to show, but he quickly masked it with an icy stare.

            They slowed their pace, right outside the bird show that was in progress. Sark reached for his gun, but kept it concealed to prying eyes. Sydney saw it was pointed at her from within his jacket.

            "Sark—"

            "Last chance, Sydney. Come and work with me, or stay with whomever you're setting me up for." Inside he knew her decision, and it made his heart go hard again.

            Sydney didn't say anything, but out of the corner of his eye, Sark saw the man with the camera, and others, approaching.

            "See you in the field." With that, Sark removed the gun and fired.


	14. Chapter 13

A/N: From here on, I may be using situations from the show, but in a different timeline. So, just know that I'm aware that Sark and Sydney are both younger than they should be at the times of the events from the show. Enjoy!

Chapter 13

            The shot went into the ground next to them, along with a second one for effect. Instantly animals and humans were sent in disarray. Sark sprinted away, mixing with the crowd. He didn't look back.

            He made it to the small rodent section of the zoo before he dared look. No one was behind him, but he knew that wouldn't last. A children's playground was back in this part of the zoo, along with an employee parking lot. Sark leapt up on the fence, and swung his body over to the parking lot. He went to the car he left there. As he turned the car around, he saw Sydney running out in front of him.

            She drew her gun, but didn't fire.

            "Sark!!" he heard her yell. He didn't drive off, but just shared a look with her. With every ounce of emotion he had, he communicated what he could in a simple stare. She lowered her gun.

            And Sark put the car in gear, and drove out a back exit.

            "She didn't come," Irina observed. It was rather obvious, but Sark wasn't going to rub that in when he knew he was in trouble.

            "No."

            "What happened?" 

            Sark sighed. "She knows the truth now. But I think she's chosen the CIA over us."

            "You gave her that choice?" The skepticism in Irina's voice was not lost on Sark.

            "No, well, yes, but not for the CIA. I couldn't kidnap her indefinitely until she broke down to work with us. There's no forcing a person who you eventually have to trust," Sark said. He started to pace, but quickly forced himself to stop. He tried to maintain an indifferent look, but couldn't.

            "You like her."

            Sark jolted at that. "No, of course not," he replied a little too hurriedly. Irina smiled. "I respect her; there's a difference," he covered.

            "I think you two would make a good match," Irina said. That made Sark's jaw drop. "But I thought you would sway her, and not the other way around."

            Sark tried not to huff and puff like a teenager.

            "I'm hardly about to run off and join the CIA, Irina," he responded with some conviction.

            "But can you keep a clear head when you see her?"

            Sark turned and walked out of the room. As he did, he didn't see Irina smile.

            He immediately changed and went to the sparring room. As he wrapped his hands, the thoughts flooded his mind.

            _She set me up_. How was that for gratitude? Sark thought Sydney would live up to her end of the deal. He hadn't hurt her at all while she was in his custody. He told her the truth, as much as he could, and this was how she repaid him?

            Life wasn't fair; Sark knew that, but this was just beating him down.

            _Why wouldn't she even consider it?_ It was as if she never was curious about his intentions. Sure, he'd killed a few people in front of her, but hey, it happened. __

_            She sees you as nothing more than an assassin_. 

            Well, those kills were hardly planned assassinations; they more like murders of convenience. 

            Maybe he was a monster.

            The hand wraps weren't straight, and that frustrated Sark to no end. Frantically, he tore the wraps from his hands, and started wailing on the punching bag barehanded.

            The bag swung back violently as Sark beat the synthetic life out of it. He alternated hands, did combination punches and then one-handed punches repeatedly. All the while his mind went in circles.

            Part of him wanted to be angry, wanted revenge for her betrayal. Part of him wanted to believe her and just fall in despair for what he had become. And part of him wanted to disappear.

            His knuckles split fairly quickly, but the pain was more than welcome. It was physical, and distracted him from the turmoil he felt inside himself. Sark didn't stop until he couldn't take anymore.

            He ran up the several flights of stairs to his room. He went to the bathroom sink, chest heaving, and turned on the water. It was cold, and it stung his hands bitterly.

            Sark gasped, but ran both bloodied hands beneath the water. The blood ran down the sink to the drain, and suddenly guilt from the last couple of years hit him.

            _What have I become?_

            He played Sydney's words in his mind, hearing the tone in everything she said. Everything accused him. "_Based on what I've observed about you, I wouldn't want to join you," _she had said.__

_            "How can you accuse my agency of wrong-doing when you have murdered innocent people!"_

_            "If you worked for the __US__ government, you would see the difference between avoiding capture and cold-blooded murder."_

Murder. Monster. _Sark_. 

            He started shaking, like he had the first time he'd killed. His knuckles were still bleeding, the skin split into a deep canyon of exposed tissue and blood. He didn't care. He sank to the bathroom floor, lying on his back. His hands covered his face as if hiding from what he felt. Sark didn't even care when the blood fell in his eyes.

            His back was so stiff that he heard every vertebrae crack when he stood up. A glance at the bathroom mirror startled him. The blood from his hands stained his face.

            Sark splashed water on his face, rubbing away the dried blood. His hands were still sore, and probably would be visibly damaged for a week or so. 

            His room was untouched, which relieved him. He didn't need anymore moments of weakness for Irina to witness.

            It was 9 a.m., later than Sark ever awoke, but he didn't care too much. He showered and dressed quickly.

            When he saw Irina, there was no evidence of the pain he felt or went through the night before. The only evidence was his hands, which Irina merely glanced at. Sark's business face was on, though his mind was hardly enthused about it.

            This was his life. For now. And he would lead it as was expected, cold, harsh, and automatic.

            Until he could get out, he was a machine.

            "Sark, what do you know about Milo Rambaldi?"

            That threw him off. "He's an inventor from the 16th century." He waited for what she was getting at.

            "He was also a prophet. Many of his designs and inventions were prototypes for current technology and weapons," Irina added.

            "So what do the artifacts we've acquired do?" Sark had obtained probably 10 things related to Rambaldi, but only now was he learning what it was all about.

            "To be honest, I don't know," she said. "Rambaldi left behind instruction books, so to speak. There is one page which concerns Sydney."

            The disbelief was quite evident on his face, so Irina just stared back at him until the information sunk in.

            "Sydney's in a 16th century instruction book written by a prophet or inventor?" Sark repeated. Just hearing those words from his own mouth made him want to crack a smile. Irina did smile at that.

            "To sum it up in one sentence, yes," she replied.

            "May I see the page?" Sark asked. Irina shook her head.

            "No. I don't have it. Which is why I need you to get it."

            There was something she wasn't saying. Her mouth was almost unnaturally neutral, which combined with her eyes staring at him intently, told Sark that there was more to this.

            "You want the page all of a sudden? Or do you want it to offer incentive to Sydney for joining us?" Sark said. Irina smiled.

            "That's more like you, Sark," she said, her smile now a full grin. "The page, along with a manuscript, is in the possession of Gerard Cuvee."

            "In India?" Sark had heard of the man, and his reputation reviled that of Irina's. "How do you know this?"

            Irina turned her attention to a file folder and smiled faintly as she said: "I used to work for him. He still thinks I do."

            Sark was visibly perplexed by that, and that made Irina laugh out loud. 

            "Let someone think what he wants if it serves your purposes." Sark took that advice in, storing it away. "Everything you need to know is in here," she said, handing him the file. "Leave as soon as you can."

            He knew Irina brought up the page as a way to distract him, or get him back in the saddle after his recent failures. Why she didn't demote him, he didn't know. But it didn't matter now.

            The backstory on Irina and Gerard was an interesting one. They worked together, yes, but Irina used her skills to not only impress Gerard, but to woo him and become his confidant. Cuvee was under the assumption that Irina was undercover in Russia, trying to track down a formula Sark had already stolen months ago. Meanwhile, Irina's operation grew.

            Sark thought it was quite ironic that a man as cautious and powerful as Cuvee was being deceived by his heart. The situation made Sark admire Irina more, but the mission he was on made him think about Sydney.

            How could she be part of some 16th century writing? _Do you even believe in Rambaldi?_

            If things went according to plan, Sark would have to confront Sydney again. He wasn't excited about that, but yet looked forward to seeing her again. He already tried a simple business plan, and that got shot down. His polite manners seemed to fail also.

            _Not that you laid down the charm on her heavily_. That was true—which got Sark's mind whirling. If this page didn't convince her to come see Sark's side, maybe outright emotions would.

            There already was a bit of chemistry between them, Sark thought. _And she chose not to shoot you at the zoo_. That had to mean something. 

            _Maybe she's feeling bad about that_. A bit of hope from that lifted Sark's mood.

            Which turned from pensive to operational.

            Sark flashed an acquired security badge at the guard, and entered the building in India's business district. The guard didn't even blink, which Sark accredited to the makeup he used to darken his face a bit. Sark was pretty pale, not uncommon for someone from the U.K., but he would definitely be out of place in India.

             Sark walked on, into the elevator and presumably to the basement to get a cleaning cart. Instead, Sark, clad in the standard janitorial blue jumpsuit, pressed the button for the 47th floor.

            _Forty-seventh floor, 47th page . . ._ What was with Rambaldi and connections to 47?

            He stepped out when the doors opened, and turned to his right. The office he looked for had no guard.

            Sark checked his watch. The guards changed shift one minute ago, which would leave him 3 more minutes until the next guard came.

            Using an electronic key splicer, Sark easily broke into the office. He shut the door quietly behind him, and then searched for the safe in the room. It was behind a Picasso, probably an original. 

            The safe only took 45 seconds to crack, with the aid of technology, of course. He opened it, holding his breath in anticipation of some alarm.

            None sounded.

            The pages of the book were yellowed, but not about to fall apart in his hands. That surprised him. 

            He lifted the book and put it into a plastic garbage bag. As he shut the safe, though, wailing alarms sounded.

            Sark checked his watch. He had 30 seconds until the guard came, but the alarm would hasten that.

            He quickly left the office, and was at the elevator when two guards came running. 

            "Did you see anything?" one asked. Sark shook his head and shrugged. He stepped in the elevator with the garbage bag of priceless Rambaldi works, and exited the building before anyone figured out what happened.

            "Good work, Sark," Irina said. She looked at every page he'd brought back.

            "I took the liberty of looking at the book, and didn't see any mention of Sydney," Sark said. He looked for Irina's reaction. She nodded.

            "Did you notice this page," she said, holding up a blank. Sark nodded. "The writing has been concealed by a solution Rambaldi created. There are two solutions: one to conceal, and one to expose."

            "Do you have the one to expose the page?" Sark asked. Inside he already knew the answer: Irina was leading him somewhere.

            "No," she replied, predictably. "But I'm sending a team to get it."

            "Where is it?"

            "SD-6."

            Sark paced back and forth in his office, wringing his hands and thinking about Irina's latest insanity.

            Sending a team into SD-6? Not only that, but Sark looked up the operational plan. The team would be blasting in, holding everyone hostage until they gained access to the SD-6 vault. It was gutsy, which wasn't uncommon for Irina. But the team leader worried Sark.

            Mackenas Cole. His file said he had a personal agenda when it came with SD-6. He already was a loose cannon of sorts. And Sark knew something would go wrong.

            The team was still in route to Los Angeles, so Sark tried to find some way to distract himself.

            He chose recent audio files from Sydney's apartment.

            He played them in the background. Just hearing her voice was soothing, and it allowed him the incentive he needed to plan for his future.

            Francie's voice caught his attention.

_Francie__: So what made your trip so long, Syd?___

_Sydney__: I had a crisis with one of our clients. This company was suddenly unhappy about the bank. _

_Francie__: But you calmed them down?_

_Sydney__: Sort of. I appeased them for a bit. But I ended up losing them._

_Francie__: Oh, I'm sorry, Syd. Is the bank mad? 'Cause if so I'd use it as grounds to quit._

_Sydney__: (polite laugh) I know. No, the bank's not mad. But I kind of am. (Pauses) I . . . I didn't want to lose that client._

_Francie__: It's less work! Be glad. You'll see us more._

            Sark stopped his pacing and scheming. Was it just him or was she lamenting her dealings with . . . him . . . .

            Did she simply appease him until she could get free? Or did she really feel like she . . . lost him?

            Maybe he wasn't the only tortured by their dealings.

            Sark tossed around in his bed, on the verge of wakefulness and dreams. The sheets trapped him as he turned. Something was wrong.

            He sat upright in his bed, the sheets still entangling him. Something inside was screaming. He half fell out of bed until he freed the sheets from his legs. He slipped on a pair of black slacks, left his white t-shirt untucked, and ran downstairs to Irina's office.

            Her face confirmed his feelings.

            "What happened?" he immediately asked. Irina sighed.

            "It seems your feelings were correct," she said. "Cole failed, and got out of hand." Sark didn't interrupt, but pressed for more details with his earnest look.

            "He ordered that everyone be killed at SD-6, after he broke into the vault." Sark felt anything in his stomach start to revisit him. "It seems, though, that someone stopped the team from carrying out that order. Cole escaped with the ampule, before the rest of the team was killed."

            "Sydney?" Sark couldn't help but ask about her fate.

            "She took the team out, with a few others, according to Cole. He's on his way back," Irina said. She looked down at the ground, some obvious emotions going through her. Then she steeled herself and looked directly at Sark. Sark knew what she wanted.

            "I'll see to his execution personally."

            And he did.

            The 47th page had a startling depiction of Sydney. The drawing was in every way her. The text even had three physical signs identifying her. And supposedly, she would bring about Rambaldi's terrible work, whatever that was.

            Irina was already breathing down Sark's neck to meet Sydney and tell her about it. But Sark knew something would go wrong. He stalled.

            "I'll send her the information, which she'll predictably turn over to the CIA. The CIA most likely will be defensive, and imprison her. It'll prove that she can't rely on the agency," Sark said.

            "Then she'll be ready," Irina filled in, nodding. "How do you know the CIA will imprison her?"

            "Just a hunch," Sark said.

            "And SD-6?" Sark shook his head.

            "Sydney, with her self-righteous sense of morality, will refuse to give anything to SD-6 unless absolutely necessary." Sark waited for approval.

            "Do it," Irina said, and turned away to other matters.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

            Sark wasn't crazy about setting himself up for rejection again, but it was a means to an end. He had money in all the right places with no trail, and he could disappear at any moment. But not yet—not with Sydney so close. 

            He didn't know why he couldn't walk away now. Something with Sydney . . . he just couldn't leave yet. Not until she didn't think of him as a monster.

            It was almost insecurity. Her approval meant nothing in the world he lived in. But to him, it would be . . . relief. Forgiveness. For what he had become.

            She brought out the innocence of Fabian Ross from the intelligence and skill of Sark. But that naivete threatened Sark. It was making him weak now, in not wanting to do what he was capable of and had been doing for the last few years. It made him weak in seeking Sydney's approval.

            _Just a few more weeks._

            Sark decided that the best way to contact Sydney wasn't going to be face-to-face this time.

            But he flew to L.A. anyway. Not for the confrontation, but just to see her. And leave her the dangling carrot.

            After some debate between him and Irina, he took the original page 47 and put it in an envelope for Sydney. He also included a letter that explained the prophecy. _Can't rely on CIA analysis._

            Now for the opportunity.

            Sark sat outside her apartment, waiting for the perfect moment. Sydney came out at 7:15, dressed in a very flattering pinstripe suit. As she went for her car, Sark stepped out of his.

            He slammed the door just a little loudly, catching Sydney's attention. She froze when she saw him. 

            "Good morning, Sydney." No more 'Miss Bristow.' Sark was determined to make things personal.

            He walked across the street, stopping on the sidewalk. She met him the rest of the way.

            "Give me one reason not to call the CIA right now," she said threateningly. Sark smirked.

            "You've betrayed me once and don't really want to do it again." _Perfect_. She took a step back with that. "I'm not here to give you a guilt trip, Sydney. But I'd like to speak with you, if you have a moment," Sark said politely. He stood tall, with his hands behind his back, almost like a waiting suitor. It was partially to hide his banged up hands from his boxing episode.

            She nodded for him to continue.

            "Do you know about Milo Rambaldi?" he asked. 

            "I've heard the name," was her indifferent reply.  Sark smiled at her stubbornness.

            "Well, I'm sure the CIA has their sub-agency that would be interested in him. Some sort of X-Files division," he mused. "Anyway, here's a page of one of his manuscripts that I recently acquired." He gave her the envelope. As he did, the sight of his torn knuckles made Sydney do a double take.

            "Nice hands," she commented. She was curious, but didn't press him. "Why are you giving this to me?" Sydney asked. She was starting to realize that Sark wasn't here just to torment her.

            "You're on the page." She blanched at that, and Sark couldn't help but smile. "You're mentioned in his works, Sydney. I've come here today to offer you a chance to figure out what its all about."

            "What, join you? You just don't give up, do you?" She sighed in frustration. "You're like that good-looking guy in high school who won't take no for an answer." She froze after she realized what she said.

            Sark couldn't resist. He flashed her a charming smile.

            "Well, at least you find me good-looking." His accent purred, which he knew tore at her resolve. _This is working!_ he thought.

            Sydney rolled her eyes, just a second too late to be convincing.

            "Hardly. I think you're—"

            "—a monster, murderer, terrorist—thank you, Sydney, you've made that all painfully clear before. No need to get all defensive because you let your true feelings show," he commented arrogantly. That flustered Sydney even more.

            "Sark, what do you want?" she asked, moving on from her embarrassment.

            His forehead wrinkled with his confusion. "Have you not been paying attention, Sydney?"

            She shook her head. "What do you really want? You've asked me to work with you several times now, and frankly, I'm bored with having to constantly say no. You're not stupid, so you understand what I say. You must have another reason."

            "Did you complete that whole analysis by yourself? Syd, I'm impressed," he mocked.

            "What did you just call me?" she asked with heat in her voice. Sark froze, unsure of what he said. "You just called me Syd—only my friends can call me that."

            "Terribly sorry, Sydney. I just thought we were close enough that I could call you by a pet name," he retorted. He took a deep breath.  "We're digressing. Look at the page, Sydney. If you don't believe me, have your CIA analyze it. And when they sick their dogs on you, you'll see that joining up with me is a viable option."

            She glared at him, still upset from their banter.

            "I have to go now. I've lingered too long," Sark said. He stepped back from her, vaguely aware of how close they were. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Sydney. Please believe that." With that, he turned and walked to his car.

            As he opened the door to get in, she called out to him.

            "Sark." He stopped. "You know I can't." Her voice had just a touch of sorrow, and it gave him hope.

            "I know you can, Sydney. But will you?" His words hung in the morning air. Sydney looked down, and Sark got in his car and drove away. 

            Sark returned to a hotel room, listening to live audio. His asset broadcasted the feed with only a thirty-second delay. He hadn't left the room since. 

            As he waited for any sort of indication of what was going on, he thought about their meeting. It had gone better than he'd hoped, and yet he was confused.

            His priorities were out of line. He didn't know if he wanted Sydney to come with him, or come to Irina's organization. Regardless of what he wanted, Sark knew that Sydney would never stay with Irina. Based on what he'd discovered, Irina betrayed her American family and the US government. But that was mainly classified information. Sydney probably still didn't know since she was studying to be a teacher of literature, just like Laura Bristow.

            _I wonder if Jack and the CIA even knows Irina is alive and well_. 

            Either way, when the truth was discovered, the emotional turbulence could directly impact Sark. And if that created a division between Irina and Sydney, who would he go with?

            _Well, not __Sydney__. That would mean the CIA, _Sark thought. _Or maybe that'd be an opportune time to get out_.

            _Get out and do what?_ That was a valid point.

            _"__Sydney_." Did he imagine that or—

            _"What did they find out?"_ The bug was picking up something. Sark went to his computer and listened.

_Jack: The CIA wants you to come in for some tests._

_Sydney__: Tests for what?_

_Jack: The page __Sark__ gave you mentioned specific signs. The signs, if right, supposedly confirm that you are the woman in Rambaldi's writings._

_Sydney__: Why is the CIA putting so much stock in this page and Rambaldi?_

_Jack: The FBI has a team that has known about and investigated Rambaldi for over a decade. The page is real._

_Sydney__: Well, what does it say about me, if it is me?_

_Jack: (pauses) It says that the woman will bring about Rambaldi's most terrible work._

Sark heard someone pacing around, probably Sydney.

_Sydney__: Dad, __Sark__ said something else. He said that the CIA would sick its dogs after me once they analyzed the page. (Pause) What if he's right?_

_Jack: I don't know._

Sark mentally patted himself on the back. The CIA was very predictable. And Sydney was already fearing what they would do with the page and her.

_Sydney__: When am I supposed to go in?_

_Jack: Tomorrow morning. I've already arranged the time off with Sloane. He thinks you have papers to write._

_Sydney: I do, but that'll have to wait._

_Jack: __Sydney__. It'll be all right._

_            Sure it will, Jack_, Sark thought. Things were playing out perfectly. Sark picked up his cell phone and called Irina.

            Based on his assumptions, and instinct, Sydney would be very close to considering running away with him.

            _Running away to the organization, I mean._

            Sark had been slipping up like that lately and it was getting on his nerves. Or making him hope.

            He watched Sydney's apartment from a house across the street. The owner was not in at the moment, which was convenient for Sark. He hadn't been waiting long when he saw Sydney's car screech to a halt in front of her place.

            He stood up, watching her. She ran for her front door, leaving it open as she hurried in. _The CIA has turned on her_.

            Sark calmly crossed the street and walked into her apartment. He remembered the last time he was inside, hiding behind a couch and hoping she wouldn't find him. This time he announced his presence when he got to her room.

            "Sydney," he said. She had been rifling through her closet, but quickly faced him.

            She whipped her gun out, leveling it with his head. Sark smirked at the reaction. She lowered her gun with a sigh when she realized it was him.

            "What, Sark?" she said, turning back to throwing clothes onto her bed.

            "Leaving in a hurry?" he replied. Sydney shot him a look, and Sark knew the answer. "How close are they behind you?"

            "The CIA? Who knows, but I'm not waiting around to find out," she said, zipping up a bag of belongings.

            "Where are you going to go?" Sark asked. He tried to play innocent about it, but she knew what he was getting at.

            And that made her drop her bag on the floor and sigh.

            "I don't know if I can trust you, Sark," she said. Sark walked to her bag and picked it up. He turned in the direction of the front door, and held out a hand to her.

            "Give me a chance to prove myself to you," he said. She stared at him.

            "You, or your employer?"

            Sark didn't answer, but dropped his hand.

            Out front they heard cars coming to a stop.

            "Let's go," Sydney said, moving for her bedroom window. They slipped out the window and circled around a few houses before reaching Sark's car, and driving away from the CIA, SD-6, and any sense of normalcy Sydney had.


	16. Chapter 15

A/N:  I won't be posting over Thanksgiving, but I'm going to post a lot of chapters today. I may even post all of the chapters of the 1st part of the story. But there's a continuation that I'll post December 1. Enjoy, and keep reviewing!

Chapter 15

            They used the private jet to fly out of Los Angeles. Sydney looked very stiff in the reclining leather armchair. She insisted on sitting on the other side of the plane, so Sark sat facing her, diagonally.

            He sipped a bottle of water, trying not to laugh at her discomfort. Laughter won out.

            "Sydney," he started, "your life isn't over." Her head snapped in his direction.

            "What would you know?" She stood up and stalked to the kitchenette. Sark sighed, watching her fill a glass with any liquid she could find.

            "You may be surprised, if you tried to understand," he replied.

            "Tried to understand what? The trials of being a cold-blooded assassin?" She threw back the drink into her mouth and slammed the glass down on the counter top.

            Sark closed his eyes, and rubbed his hands over his face. While he marveled at her annoying stubbornness, he hid the impact of her stinging remark.

            "What'd you do to your hands, anyway? Your latest victim fight back?" she said. _That's mature, Sydney_, he thought. But if she wanted to be harsh, he could be that way too.

            "No, the hands were because of you." Sark looked down at his knuckles, rubbing a finger over the cuts.

            She watched him, her mouth open as if she wasn't sure what he meant. "And how did I do that, Sark?"

            He sighed again.

            "Indirectly. After you set me up at that zoo, I was actually quite disappointed. I took it out on a punching bag," he said. He tried to be blunt about it, but yet indifferent. He realized after he spoke that too much emotion came through.

            "The CIA wanted to know how I knew about SD-6. I had to tell them, and then they wanted you brought in," she said.

            "Nice try at justification, Sydney."

            "Bite me, Sark." He let himself smirk openly at that.

            "Was that an invitation?" he asked. She glared at him in response, but later sighed.

            "I . . . I really didn't want to. And I know that you . . . you helped me, and setting you up was . . . like throwing it in your face." She sounded sincere. Sark saw the remorse in her eyes, and it softened his grudge.

            _She is so beautiful_. 

            "Anyway," she said, clearing her throat, "I'm sorry about your hands." Sark stared at her.

            "I know your life has been turned upside down," he said. "But you'll adjust. We'll figure out this Rambaldi stuff, and take things day by day." She nodded.

            "How much do you know about Rambaldi? Do you have more about him?" she asked.

            "Yes, but understanding Rambaldi takes time. I don't know what it's all about," Sark admitted. Sydney started pacing.

            "Then how do I know I'm any better off with you and your employer? And it's time I know your employer!"

            Her sudden return of frustration was making Sark tired and testy.

            "First of all, my employer and I haven't locked you up in a cage because of Rambaldi. And we're flying to where my employer is. But it's not up to me to see that you meet. My employer will dictate that." He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes for a moment. "You should rest, Sydney. It's a decently long flight."

            He heard her plop down in her seat. It was quiet for awhile, and Sark was close to drifting off. He debated about trusting her, but let himself let his guard down for a little while. For the first time in several weeks, his sleep was peaceful.

            When they landed, Sydney got jumpy again. Sark couldn't really fault her for that. She was entering a new world, walking into the clutches of the most manipulative and powerful woman he'd ever met. Of course, Sydney didn't know all of that, but she would soon.

            Sark, once he awoke, tried to estimate how long Sydney would stay. He didn't expect it to be too long, since Sydney's strong and overbearing sense of integrity would win over eventually. His current guess was 72 hours. One day for the meeting, a second for the screaming and accusations, and a third day spent in misery as Sydney reevaluated her life.

            He wondered how that would affect him. He feared he knew how.

            The limo was waiting, as usual. Sark held the door open for Sydney, who cautiously got in.

            "I take it you're pretty well off, Sark," she said, starting some semblance of conversation. He smiled at that.

            "This is just one of the perks," he replied modestly. "But to be honest, I much prefer a good sports car."

            "Why, the control factor?" she guessed. Sark nodded.

            "I'm much more comfortable when I'm behind the wheel. Not just the control, but the being at someone else's mercy," he explained. "It bothers me every time."

            "Like now?" Sydney asked. "Are you nervous about your driver?" Se had a faint smile on her lips, the first he'd seen of late. Sark cocked his head to peer at the driver beyond the glass partition.

            "No, I trust him. But I would handle any unexpected surprises flawlessly, whereas I fear he might succumb to shock," he said with a soft smile that had just a hint of scorn for the driver's inabilities.

            Their eyes connected, and though the situation was new for both of them, Sark felt truly calm. That is, until she broke off the look, and shifted in her seat.

            Sark held back a sigh. He was saved by his cell phone.

            He answered on the second ring.

            "Yes," he said. The voice back was Irina's.

            "Is she all right?" Irina asked.

            "Yes. We're on our way. ETA 20 minutes," Sark responded like an assistant.

            "Let her settle in, freshen up, and then both of you meet me for dinner in the formal dining room." She hung up immediately. 

            _Dinner_, he thought. It wasn't the setting he imagined for the reunion, but it'd do. Sark wondered if he should wear a Kevlar vest for the occasion. 

            Sydney was staring at him intently, though not for his good looks, Sark realized.

            "I apologize. That was my employer. We're to have dinner together," he relayed. "I hope that's satisfactory to you, Sydney."

            She nodded, and Sark could tell she was pleased that finally she would know more.

            Her jaw dropped when she saw the large estate that the facility and Sark's quarters were part of. Sark held a hand out for her as she stepped out of the limo.

            She took it.

            "I'll escort you to your room," he said. He picked up her bag, and led the way. By her slow pace behind him, she must have been taking in as many details as possible.

            The facility was quite impressive. There wasn't much else around the grounds—they were quite isolated from the world, and that was smart, in Sark's opinion. But the appearance of the whole estate was rich and stately.

            "Your room, Sydney," Sark said, opening the door. Her room had marble flooring like his, but a much more feminine hue in the walls and decor. She walked in, surveying everything.

            "My employer and I took the liberty of supplying some clothing for you," he said, walking to a closet. "Please make yourself at home. Feel free to rest or freshen up, and I'll be back to take you to dinner in an hour." _That sounded like a date_, he reflected. He brushed it aside.

            She nodded. Sark turned to leave.

            "Sark." That shiver went through him again when she called his name. He turned back to her, and saw the soft, charming insecure look she gave him. "Where do you stay?"

            He didn't reply for a moment; he just admired how . . . cute she was when she asked that timid question.

            "I'm directly across the hall," he answered. "If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

            He turned and started out the door.

            "Thank you." It was very soft but he heard it. And it made him rush to his room before he turned again and showed her the emotions threatening to overtake him.

            He had composed himself to face her after a bath and a change into a charcoal gray suit and black shirt. No tie was necessary at dinner, but some level of formality was. He hoped Sydney chose something appropriate.

            He knocked on her door. When she opened it, a breeze swept over him. She'd chosen a white dress with a black and faint gray floral print. The cut of it accented her figure, hugging to her body closely enough for him to appreciate the fact that he'd chosen the dress for her. He felt somewhat the winner that she'd chosen his selection over Irina's others, but anyway . . .

            She was stunning. So much so that he forgot where they were headed.

            "Where to?" she asked. Sark physically shook his head clear and held out an arm in the direction of the dining room.

            "This way," he stumbled. She nodded and went with him.

            He couldn't help but keep looking at her as they walked. _If Irina looked like this when Jack met her, no wonder he was fooled for all those years_.

            The doors to the dining room were open, and Sark saw that place settings and the food were ready and waiting. 

            He went in first, with Sydney following. He nodded to his employer, who sat waiting for them.

            Sydney stopped as soon as she saw her. No noise interrupted the silence as they stared at each other. Irina looked as close to soft as Sark had ever seen. Sydney's eyes shone with moisture and confusion.

            "Mom?"


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

            "Sydney." Sark noticed that her normally light Russian accent was hidden. _She's being Laura Bristow_.

            Irina moved to hug Sydney, but the daughter sidestepped the embrace and started pacing. Sark stood rooted to his spot, a bit unsure of his place in this decidedly awkward situation. He looked to Irina, tilting his head to the door. She nodded.

            Sark closed the doors of the dining room behind him. As curious as he was about how things would play out, he knew this was the most comfortable place to be for him.

            He wondered if Irina would tell Sydney the truth. He supposed she would; Sydney was smart enough to figure out that her mother obviously had some involvement in the spy world. Sark went to the kitchen, swiped himself a glass of wine, and went back by the doors. He sat, sipped and waited.

            The voices inside got louder, and Sark suspected the emotional dam had broken. He took another sip from his glass.

            A half-hour had passed by the time he checked his watch. His patience was wearing thin. _Not to mention that my stomach is empty._ He stood to go to the kitchen when the doors suddenly flew open.

            Sark barely caught a glimpse of Sydney as she took the stairs two at a time to the residence rooms. _Well, at least no one got killed_.

            He entered the dining room quietly, and found Irina quiet and staring at the cold food.

            "How did it go?" _As if you don't know—you were listening the whole time._ Irina gave him a look that said as much. "It's not like I had my ear pressed against the door," Sark said defensively.

            Irina sighed.

            "She's . . . shocked. This will take some getting used to. She has thought I was dead all these years," she said.

            "That, and she thought you were a literature professor," Sark added. That earned him a glare. Sark cleared his throat apologetically. "She looked lovely, I thought."

            _Random U-turn in conversation, Sark_, he scolded himself. Irina smiled. 

            "I noticed the dress she picked," Irina said. Sark couldn't help but smile.

            "Yes, so did I." 

            They stood in momentary silence after that. Sark watched Irina's smile fade.

            "Will you take her something to eat?" she asked. Sark nodded. "Good. I'm relying on you to help her adjust."

            "Of course," Sark answered. He spun on one heel and headed for the kitchen.

            His knock was quiet, just in case she was sleeping. When she answered the door, it was obvious she hadn't been.

            Her dress was replaced with yoga pants and a tank top and her eyes were puffy and pink. She stepped aside and let Sark in.

            "Your mother thought you might be hungry," he said, placing a tray of food on a small decorative table. She eyed the food, but obviously her mind was elsewhere.

            "You knew, didn't you?" she said. Her voice was low, but it definitely had a menacing tone. Sark took a deep breath.

            "Yes."

            "And you recruited me for her," she said. Sark nodded. "Was anything you told me true?"

            Sark opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off.

            "You claimed the CIA would turn on me. Did they really, or did you just orchestrate that, you deceiving, self-centered—"

            "Sydney, before you say something you regret, please know that I had nothing to do with how the CIA reacted to the Rambaldi prophecy."

            "Was that page even real?" she shot back.

            "You know it is. You have the signs," he said. "Don't doubt me because you've discovered the truth about your mother."

            "The truth," she said, almost snorting. "The truth that my mother didn't die when I was six, wasn't a teacher, wasn't loyal to the United States, but the exact opposite!"

            He waited for a moment. As he opened his mouth to finally say something, she cut in again.

            "And you helped her!!!"

            Sark sighed, and walked over to the food. He bit his lip and hastily buttered a dinner roll.

            "As much as I love being accused of everything but the Kennedy assassination, I'm actually hungry," he said. "If you didn't notice, your reunion with your mother cost me dinner."

            Sydney fumed at that. "Get over yourself, Sark."

            "You first," Sark shot back. He took a bite of the bread, chewing furiously. "You think you're the only one who's ever been deceived?" He swallowed to avoid bread crumbs spewing as he spoke. "This business is all about deception. So what if Irina lied to you, faked her death, and betrayed your country? She still loves you and obviously cares enough about you to rescue you from the bureaucratic imbeciles of the CIA, FBI, and NSA!"

            He punctuated that last sentence with another bite.

            "If you have doubts," he began again, "you should just leave. You're already planning on it, what with your iron-clad sense of justice. Go ahead—good riddance. It's hard enough with one Dereveko around here."

            He stopped but only because her fist came flying at him. It landed on his left jaw, sending him stumbling back into a chair.

            "Don't you dare call me that! I'm a Bristow," she said with clenched fists. Suddenly, a thought hit her or something, because she relaxed for a moment. "And I'm part Derevko." She turned away form Sark, who was still slammed back in the chair, massaging his jaw.

            "Sydney," Sark started. "Your mother is a part of you, yes. But she doesn't determine completely who you are. Nor does some prophecy.." She faced him when he said those words. Seeing that he was making some dent into her emotional wreck of a facade, he continued.

            "You've heard this before, but we can find out what Rambaldi wrote and—"

            He was interrupted. She stalked to him until she was inches away. He saw the emotion in her eyes, but it wasn't doubt or fear. It was sudden desire. _What just happened?_

            He didn't question anymore. Sark placed his hands on her face and quickly moved in for a kiss. It was soft, tentative.  He pulled back, gauging her reaction. Then she kissed him back, hard.

            A little too hard. Sark's jaw screamed in protest. 

            A groan escaped, unmistakably pain and not enjoyment. Sydney pulled back.

            "My jaw's a little sore," he whispered. Sydney laughed lightly.

            "I'm sorry I hit you," she said. Sark shook his head.

            "Don't worry about it." He stared at her, those big brown eyes, and started to lean in again.

            And as unfortunate timing would have it, his cell phone rang.

            He sighed and pulled away.

            It was his L.A. asset.

            "Yes?"

            "There's been some interesting audio. The bugs have been found, but don't worry. I've severed any connection to us. But the last files recorded are . . . interesting."

            "Forward them to me immediately." He hit the end button on his cell phone.

            "Business?" Sydney asked. Sark nodded, stepping back from her.

            "Always," he said. He paused, considering what was next. _You just kissed her about 20 seconds ago. You can't pretend it didn't happen_. "I apologize if I've overstepped any boundaries, Sydney."

            She laughed at him, but Sark couldn't figure out why.

            "You really are the gentleman, aren't you?" she commented. She quieted down, and then said with some reflection: "You weren't kidding when you said you weren't a monster."

            "Not anymore," he said. That silence, packed with emotions and thoughts, surfaced again. _Business_! his mind reminded him. 

            "Um," he started, probably the first time in two years he'd said such an unintelligible thing, "I better see to that call." She looked at the ground as he said that, and knew she was disappointed. "Please enjoy your dinner."

            With that, he turned and walked very self-consciously out of the room.

            As soon as he hit the hallway, he ran down to his office in the lower levels of the facility. If the audio recordings weren't incredible, he planned to kill the asset for interrupting that kiss.

            He found the files and started downloading them onto his laptop.

            The first voice he heard sounded like Jack Bristow. The second he'd never heard before, but it was someone from CIA.

_Jack: Look for anything that might help us find her, Vaughn._

Vaughn? Sark had heard the name before, but from old files involving Irina. Plus, Irina had killed that particular Vaughn.

_Vaughn: Do you think __Sark__ kidnaped her? Or did she run?_

_Jack: Either way, we need to help her. I'm not crazy about the CIA making the mistake of thinking she is a traitor, nor am I fond of some assassin taking her._

There was rustling noises as the two agents seemed to rifle through Sydney's apartment.

_Vaughn: Jack, back here. It looks like someone packed a bag in a hurry._

_Jack: Either Sark came in here himself and packed a bag, which would suggest he doesn't intend to kill her, or Sydney packed a bag . . . ._

_Vaughn: And used him to escape the CIA._

_Jack: If she's hiding, obviously she doesn't know what we've discovered._

Discovered? What had they discovered?

_Vaughn: Do you really believe Derevko is alive?_

_Oh hell and damnation,_ Sark cursed in his mind.__

_Jack: The mere fact that it was already an option the CIA considered years ago tells me that it's a strong possibility. I just wished they had told me then._

_Vaughn: Instead they persecuted __Sydney__ so she was vulnerable enough to be kidnaped by __Sark__. You think they'd have realized already that she is too good to turn on the country._

Sark stopped the recording. She really was too good to turn on the United States. But now that she knew so much about Irina and at least something about the organization, she was a threat when she returned. _When?_ It was almost predetermined in his mind. _She would never stay, once she learned that we're no better than the Alliance_. Well, Irina's organization was better, but not any more moral or ethical.__

Either way, Sydney could turn over damaging intel to the CIA. And that concerned him.

            Sark stood up from his solid cherry wood desk, pushing the leather chair back as he did. He had to speak with Irina.

            Irina opened her office door, and Sark didn't wait for an invitation to enter.

            "We may have a problem."

            "Do we tell her, and let her go?" Sark asked after explaining it all.

            Irina sat calmly behind her desk, fingers pressed against each other in a pensive position.

            "You think she'll want to go back, even though the CIA tried to jail her,"she summarized.

            Sark nodded.

            "And she'll then confirm that you are alive, and send the CIA our way." 

            Irina turned in her chair, thinking deeply.

            "Tell her what you've learned. And then tell her we have a mission you two are going on," Irina said. Sark's eyes narrowed, exposing his forehead to wrinkles of confusion.

            "Mission?" Sark repeated. Irina tilted her head to the side.

            "A test. If she tries to leave or set us up, we let her go. If not, she proves herself to us."

            "If she leaves, you're not worried about the CIA?" Sark asked.

            "Worried, no. Concerned, maybe. But the CIA is hardly a match for us," Irina said confidently. "Besides, Sydney will stay."

             Sark smiled. "I wish I had your confidence."

            "You should. She likes you," Irina said. Sark froze, suddenly feeling like he was in grade school and the rumors were flying. 

            "She wouldn't choose me over her conscience," Sark objected rationally. Irina nodded.

            "We'll see," she said. "Come up with a mission. Leave as soon as you can." Sark got up to leave.

            "Do I tell her about the recordings?" he asked before leaving. 

            "Tonight."

            Just telling Sydney about the new recordings easily led to the fact that Sark bugged her apartment.

            Sydney glared at him and punched him again—in the same spot on his jaw.

            He rubbed it gingerly.

            "Obviously, you're upset," he said calmly.

            "Did you figure that out by yourself, Sark?" she said, huffing with the exertion of anger and her punch.

            "We leave on a mission tomorrow afternoon, Sydney. I need to know you won't try killing me en route," he pointed out.

            "What makes you think I want to work with you anymore?" Sydney challenged.

            _Here it is—the moment of truth._

            "Optimistic thinking that the kiss we shared not long ago was more than an impulse, and at best an indication that you wanted me." He knew he shouldn't have said that. Sydney jumped off one foot, swinging her other leg around at his head.

            He ducked at the last moment, crouched to the floor and swept his leg around to kick her off her feet. Her body made a loud thud on the floor, so much that Sark winced for her.

            But she was back on her feet instantly, and dove for him. He didn't have any time to dodge.

            They both crashed back into the table, the leftover food and dishes falling over and on top of them. Sydney sat on top of Sark, effectively pinning him on his back. Then she started punching him relentlessly.

            He half-heartedly warded off her blows, but some got through. His chest and sides were starting to ache as she continued to wail on him. 

            She was strong.

            Sark finally successfully blocked a hit, then landed one of his own squarely in her diaphragm. It threw her back for a moment, and Sark used that opportunity to push her off of him.

            Both struggled to catch their breath, more because of the pain than tiredness. Sark's hand rested protectively over his chest and torso.

            "Feel better?" he asked between gasps. She glared at him.

            "How could you?" 

            Sark almost rolled his eyes. "Get over it, Sydney. If you want to leave, leave. It's not like I'm stopping you. You know the CIA's rescinded its order to find you. You can go help them track us down or you can stay and work with us." He tried to stand up, but stopped as he noticed the condition of his body and suit.

            There was food bits and water all over him.

            "Do you know this is the second suit you've ruined?" he said.__

            "I trusted you, only to find out you were spying on me," Sydney said, ignoring his complaint. Sark gave her a rare incredulous look.

            "You always knew I was spying on you. You just didn't know to what extent," he said. Suddenly an alarmed look came over her face, and Sark instantly knew what she was thinking. "No, it was only audio surveillance."

            Sark started flicking away the bits of food. He sighed when he came to a grease stain.

            "It's a suit, Sark—not the end of the world," she said. She handed him a napkin, which he snatched from her. He started dabbing at the grease.

            "So I take it you don't want me," he said with some levity. She glared at him again, making him hold up his hands in surrender. "As a mission partner, I mean."

            "What mission?" she asked cautiously.

            "Vatican City. The Vatican, actually."

            "What's there?"

            "The actual decoder for Rambaldi's works," Sark answered. Sydney squinted her eyes, wrinkling her whole forehead in the process. "We've been using a simulated decoder, but obviously the real thing would help to make sure we're interpreting Rambaldi's works correctly."

            "When do we leave?" she asked. Sark cocked his head to the side, giving her a questioning look.

            "You're not leaving?" he asked. 

            She shook her head, and for the first time in a while, she threw him off.

            Of course, in the event she was playing him, Sark was prepared. He had three men near the museum, patrolling indiscreetly. A tech team was monitoring frequencies in case any suspect transmissions showed up.

            Sark followed Sydney into the Vatican, both dressed as repairmen. They were hardly questioned.

            The plan was to infiltrate the basement, blow a hole in a wall, and enter a hidden area. The only trick was the alarm system.

            There was a 20 second delay to deactivate it, but from their vantage point, that was incredibly tight.

            Sark set the explosive, while Sydney hid in position behind a wall. He joined her, detonator in hand. After exchanging a look, he hit the button.

            The blast was loud, but hopefully unheard, given their position below the building. Sydney ran ahead into the hole, armed with what tech he gave her. Sark counted off the seconds in his head.

            He was on 16 when they arrived at the alarm. Sydney quickly hooked up the code breaker. It broke the code at 21 seconds.

            "Find artifact 4747, quickly," Sark ordered. Frantically they searched, racing against the coming guards. 

            He could hear them coming. Sark pursed his lips, pressing harder until—

            "Over here," he heard Sydney say. She was in front of a large painting, by Rambaldi of course.

            "Where's the code?" he said aloud. He peered closely at the painting. Nothing stood out. Frustrated, he pulled out his knife, ready to slice into the painting and analyze it later.

            "Wait," Sydney said, stopping his knife mid-air. "It's on the frame."

            She was right. 

            "Take photos," Sark said. "I'll hold off the guards." With that, he started out the way they came.

            And ran right into the muzzle of an automatic rifle. The guards, two of them, ordered him to the floor in Italian.

            Sark played dumb, though was quite disappointed with himself that he didn't already have his gun ready. One guard took a step toward him, about to hit him with the rifle. Sark instinctively stepped forward and yanked the gun away.

            He spun around on one foot, and landed it in the other guard's torso. But in focusing that kick on him, Sark failed to see the first guard pull out a knife.

            It sliced his left side. Sark yelled out and pulled away. The second guard, having recovered from Sark's initial blow, kicked him in the side. Sark groaned as the pain and impact made him fall to the ground. Both guards stood over him, and for a moment, Sark wondered if Sydney had conveniently taken the opportunity to betray him. 


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

            Just as he was about to curse Sydney in the 11 different languages he knew fluently, he saw both guards go down in front of him. Sydney dead-legged both from behind, then kicked in a smooth arch down on one's head. The other started to react, and Sydney didn't even blink.

            She brought up her gun and fired once. The guard fell. Sark watched as she stepped over the guard, and fired again right over the heart, killing him.

            Sark didn't move. He couldn't believe she actually killed him. Images of the guards he had killed long ago replayed in his mind. He saw them flying through the air, behind the heat of the explosion. 

            "Come on, Sark," she said, interrupting his shock. "More will be coming." She held out a hand, and helped him to his feet.

            Sark tried not to clutch his open wound as they hobbled out of the Vatican together.

            On the plane ride back, Sark was more quiet than usual.

            As soon as the plane door shut, Sydney searched for a first aid kit. Sark just plopped down on a leather seat and watched her.

            He still was stunned, but not as much from the injury as her behavior.

            "Sark," he heard her say. He snapped his attention to her. "Where's the kit?" Her tone suggested that this wasn't the first time she asked him that.

            He nodded toward an overhead bin. "Up there." She didn't hesitate to pull it out.

            "Take your shirt off," she ordered. Sark couldn't help but smirk at that. But he complied.

            He grimaced at the shooting pain as he pulled the shirt over his head. Sydney immediately started inspecting the wound.

            "It's not deep, but we should clean it out," she said, as if reciting the weather report. "This may sting."

            _It always does_, Sark thought. He braced himself for the antiseptic, not wanting to show any weakness in front of her.

            Especially since she just saved his hide. _Though in more of an extreme way than I ever expected_.

            She just killed that one guard. He was already down, shot once in the chest. But she stood over him, calm and poised. Sark shut his eyes as he saw her pull the trigger, and the guard's body jerk with the fatal shot. _She murdered him_.

            _Murder. Monster._

_Sydney_.

            "Sark," he heard again. He looked at her. Oddly, she looked concerned.

            "Yes, Sydney," he acknowledged.

            "Are you all right?" she asked. Her concern seemed genuine, but Sark couldn't shake the image of her face when she pulled the trigger. It overlapped the present.

            "Sark?" she pressed. He shook away the images.

            "I'm fine," he said quietly. "Just thinking." He looked down at his side. The blood was already wiped away, and Sydney had already patched up the wound.

            "Where did you get the other scars?" she asked. Sark looked down at his side again. She was right; there were old scars around the new wound. _The tunnel_.

            "The London mission," he stated flatly. Sydney looked confused.

            "I don't remember doing that." Sark shook his head.

            "You didn't. The water," he said shortly. "I got pushed into the tunnel walls." She nodded knowingly.

            "Of course," she added, as if she knew the whole time. Her hand lingered over the scars. Sark watched it, wondering what she was thinking.

            And suddenly, he saw the guard's body twitch again.

            Sark jerked back from her. He instantly realized how sudden that was, and quickly covered it up by putting on his shirt and standing up.

            "Did you," he started, clearing his throat nervously, "did you see any pain killers in that kit?" Sydney's eyes studied him. Sark didn't face her, but pretended to inspect the bandages on him.

            "Yes," she answered slowly. She reached for the kit, and tossed him a bottle of Tylenol. He caught it, though with his left hand. Pain went through his side, and Sark quickly put his right hand over the wound, as if to instantly stop the ripping he felt there.

            She was watching him, he could tell, as he downed two pills and a bottle of water. Sark ignored her looks, and sat down again. Before she could start up again, he pulled out his cell phone.

            Irina picked up immediately.

            "We got it," he said.

            "Any indications that she signaled the CIA?" Irina asked. Sark had already received reports from the other units.

            "No." There was a long pause before Irina answered.

            "Good. See you soon." 

            Sark hung up. Irina was pleased; she rarely said anything like a goodbye at the end of a phone conversation. Sark saw it as meaningless pleasantries, and knew Irina used her words as sparingly. But the success obviously had Irina happy.

            And Sark knew it was because of Sydney.

            Without looking at Sydney, Sark stretched out on a sofa, and pretended to sleep. When he heard Sydney get up and go to the kitchenette, he allowed himself to relax a bit.

            _Sydney__'s not so innocent_. Sark knew she was defending him and herself, but something about the way sheshot the man made Sark doubt. 

            _It wasn't just shooting him. It was an execution_. Since he met her, Sark had been beating himself up for being so terrible while she was so pure. 

            He had been wrong. And for some reason, that made everything worse.

            It made him think. Her overly developed sense of justice made him hate himself not long ago. _But was that an act for the CIA? Maybe she already knew about SD-6_.

            Sark abandoned that thought. He didn't suspect her of playing the spy field, infiltrating SD-6, CIA, and Irina's organization. But she obviously wasn't the woman he thought she was.

            Irina was waiting for them when they got to the facility. She hugged her daughter, and for some reason it struck Sark as oddly normal. It was as if Sydney just got home from school.

            "I'm glad things went well," she said, congratulating her daughter. Sark couldn't help but feel out of place. Usually this was something Irina would say to him.

            He wasn't jealous, but it was different. Everything was different than he expected.

            "You're hurt," he heard Irina say. Sark focused on her, putting his thoughts and doubts away for now.

            "Just a scratch," Sark replied quickly. "Sydney has the code." _Back to business_. Business had always been his safety net, his way to cover up any emotion. Irina paused, as if analyzing him. Sark didn't flinch, but held her stare.

            "Very good," she said finally. Sark nodded, and excused himself.

            It was still relatively early in the evening. Sark knew Irina probably already ordered dinner—she often did after missions, to discuss what was next and as a reward of sorts. But Sark didn't plan to attend tonight.

            He didn't bother with a shower, but quickly changed into something comfortable and fell onto his bed.

            The mission replayed in his dreams that night. He knew he tossed around in his bed. He woke up twice, each time checking the clock. The last time it was only 1 a.m. By the third time, Sark gave up.

            It was 3:30 a.m. Sark sat up.

            He couldn't stop thinking about Sydney. 

            _She really is a Derevko_. 

            He sighed loudly to the silence in his room. He was too awake and troubled to try sleeping again. He got out of bed, still dressed in the grey pants and black t-shirt he fell asleep in.

            Sydney's door was closed, and the rest of the estate was relatively quiet. Just the guards were awake, as well as a few scientists who had no lives.

            Sark's bare feet padded quietly down to the training room. It was empty, as expected.

            The first punch he threw at a bag sent a wave of pain up and down his left side. Sark sighed. He kicked with his right foot, then his left—the pain was still there, but not as prevalent.

            He started kickboxing the bag. He steadied himself on one leg, then did a two-kick high and low on the bag with the other leg. He spun around, swinging a leg so that it slammed hard into the bag.

            Once he started feeling comfortable, he got creative. He bounced around, throwing light kicks here and there. Every now and then he kicked up high, then slammed his leg down at the top of the bag. 

            He held himself steady, then kicked the same spot repeatedly without stepping down. 

            It felt good. It allowed him to think, but without the anguish. 

            Sydney was changing everything—what he thought of her, and his relationship with Irina. Seeing them together—it was only a matter of time before Irina switched the balance of power in the organization.

            And that shift would be away from him. It was already away from Khasinau—_where was he lately?_ Sark wondered.

            Not that he cared too much. For himself, maybe it was a good time to start putting in motion a disappearance from the industry.

            He would check on that as soon as the Swiss banks opened.

            There was nothing left for him to care about anymore.

            Sark suddenly stopped, and held the bag he'd been beating mercilessly. Someone was watching him.

            He spun around, trying to catch whoever it was—but no one was in the training room with him. He speed-walked to the door and quickly checked the surrounding rooms. 

            No one. Sark slowly returned to the training room.

            Irina leaned against the wall, waiting for him. Sark was hardly surprised and showed as much.

            "Working out too?" Sark asked, though he knew she wasn't there for exercise. She stood up straight, and started to circle him.

            He hated it when she did that. Sometimes it made him feel like just a piece of meat to be devoured. And that look she always had when she analyzed him—it was half seduction and half concern.

            "You're upset." _Why does she state the obvious?_ Sark thought, somewhat miffed at this encounter. But he quickly masked any irritation. Irina always had a purpose, and given the new circumstances, he had to figure out what it was.

            "A little," he admitted honestly. He started stretching his legs, which he noticed she watched appreciatively.

            "About Sydney," Irina pressed. Sark didn't know how much Irina suspected, so he let her lead the way. "She saved you, didn't she?"

            Sark almost laughed. _She thinks I'm beating myself up about being saved by a woman._

            "Yes," he said. "I don't know why, but I was caught off guard." _This could be quite easy to play off_, he thought.

            "And you got hurt," Irina added. "That's been happening a lot lately."

            Sark's mind screeched to a stop. _Is she questioning my capabilities_? Irina continued

            "Ever since Sydney surfaced, you've been . . . distracted."

            Sark quickly thought about ways to respond. He dismissed denial or defensiveness. _Charm_.

            "Can you blame me? She is . . . distracting," he responded carefully. Irina smiled widely at that.

            "You like her." Sark almost agreed, except that he was more distracted lately by how evil she seemed to be.

            "I thought you said we'd make a good match," Sark said. "At any rate, it's irrelevant how I feel."

            Irina cocked her head to one side. "It's quite relevant when it affects your performance in the field." She stared at him hard, and that froze Sark mid-stretch.

            He breathed in deeply.

            "I actually meant that it is irrelevant if she doesn't feel the same way," he said quietly. Irina smiled.

            "I think she does, though," she said. "She hasn't admitted it, but I can tell." Sark almost laughed at that.

            "From what? Maternal instinct over a daughter you abandoned for ideology more than a decade ago?" He knew that would make her upset, but needed anything to move this conversation away from him.

            In response, Irina took two quick steps toward him and swung a right hook into his left jaw.

            Sark dropped to the floor, grasping his jaw, which felt renewed in pain. When he looked up at Irina, she smiled.

            "Do you know," Sark started, rolling onto his back, "that Sydney hit me there twice yesterday?"

            "Like mother, like daughter," Irina answered back. He nodded, and rolled onto his uninjured side. As he was on all fours, getting up, Irina swung her foot hard into his stomach. The kick made Sark feel like he swallowed a barrel, and sent him back on his side. Pain went through his stomach, making him heave and almost throw up. The wound from the Vatican guards stung.

            Sark took a moment to steel himself, then looked blankly up at Irina. She smiled again, in that trademark motherly, yet "I-can-kill-you-anytime" way.

            "You're forgetting your place, Sark," she said soothingly. It didn't comfort him at all, and he knew that was her intention. She leaned over him.

            "Where is my place?" he asked, maybe just a touch too quickly to seem passive. But he pressed on. "Next to Khasinau?"

            Irina grinned openly. "You've noticed he's gone. No, your place isn't next to him. But it could be." With that, she stood up straight and left the room.

            Sark stayed on the floor mats, thinking and plotting. _Khasinau's dead. Irina thinks I'm incompetent and that I'm rebelling. And __Sydney__ is off the charts_.

            It definitely was time to put some plan in motion. Sark glanced at a wall clock. One more hour, and the Swiss banks would be open.

            He gingerly pulled himself up off the floor, wincing as he did. He had to shower and get ready for the day. And he had one main goal for the day.

            _Stop getting beat up._


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

            A bath seemed to do wonders for his body. The soreness from Irina's kick and the various blows to his face subsided with the hot water.

            Sark chose a suit, a tan one that screamed casual confidence. It seemed appropriate, even necessary for today. Sark wore a white shirt, open at the neck. He looked himself over in the full length mirror in his room. He looked sharp, except for the bruise on his left jaw. Luckily, the rest of his bruises and cuts were hidden.

            Sark trotted down the stairs to the kitchen and dining rooms. He strutted in, ignoring the usual staff, and picked up a bagel and a bowl of fruit and yogurt. With them in hand, he went on to his office.

            By then it was 6 a.m. Sark sat down behind his desk and hit a number that was only known in his mind. While the line rang, he started on his yogurt.

            "Corporate offices," a heavily accented voice answered. Sark swallowed a chunk of fruit.

            "Yes, I need an update of account 429XL—" he stopped mid-account number as he looked up and saw Sydney standing in his doorway. "I'm sorry, I'll have to call you back."

            He cleared his throat.

            "Yes Sydney, please come in," he said politely. He motioned to a seat in front of the desk. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. _Must have just woken up._  Her hair was long and tangled, but swept into a ponytail to appear presentable. She still looked beautiful.

            Sark cleared his throat again, composing himself away from that train of thought. He continued to eat his breakfast.

            "I wanted to see how you're doing," she said. Sark paused mid-bite.

            "I'm fine," he said, chewing quickly. She tilted her head to examine the left side of his face. That tilt reminded him of Irina. 

            "Is your face sore?" she asked. Her brown eyes were open wide, saddened even. Sark averted his gaze, and refocused on the yogurt.

            "A little, but don't worry. I heal quickly," he said. Of course, then he noticed his hands, which were still scabbed over. 

            "So what's next?" Sydney asked. The sudden change in topic told Sark that she didn't believe him, but would let it go.

            "The photos you took are in analysis. I haven't heard anything new from Irina, but feel free to confer with her," he said. He avoided looking directly at her, and he knew she noticed. 

            "Why are ignoring me?" she asked bluntly. Sark couldn't stop himself from looking up from his bowl.

            "I'm sorry?" he said.

            Sydney sighed. "Ever since we kissed, you've been distant. Shifty. Ignoring me."

            Sark held up his hand to stop her. "I get it, Sydney," he said, effectively ending her list of terms. "This is sort of new for me," he said, hoping that would end the conversation.

            "What, never liked a girl before, Sark?" Sydney teased. Sark smiled weakly.

            "None like you."

            Sydney slowly smiled at that. Sark shifted his gaze to his desk, then back at her. "I'm not sure how to handle this, and still be effective at my job."

            It was true, but it wasn't just liking her that he didn't know how to handle; it was fearing her unpredictability now.

            Sydney stood and circled behind the desk. Sark turned in his chair, following her as she closed in.

            "You're used to being in control, even in relationships," Sydney observed aloud. She leaned over him, supporting herself on the armrests. "But just because I'm Irina Derevko's daughter doesn't mean I'm off limits."

            She was so close to him, her breath tickling over his skin. Her eyes mesmerized him, and he felt her fingertips trace the bruise on his jaw.

            "Is that an invitation?" he whispered. She smiled tightly.

            "Maybe."

            She pulled back, and walked purposefully out of his office. It took Sark a full minute to control his breathing.

            He had been ready to leave and give up on Sydney, but she kept drawing him in. Now he couldn't tell if she wanted him or was playing with him.

            Sark didn't know if he had the resolve to stick around and find out.

            It was late in the day when Sark's phone rang. It was Irina, instructing him to be at dinner in half an hour. Sark gave her a 'yes ma'am' and continued working up until the last minute.

            Mother and daughter were seated, waiting for him when he stepped into the dining room. Both women looked stunning in evening gowns. Sark suddenly felt underdressed.

            "I'm sorry," he began. "I must have misunderstood the occasion." He spread out his napkin over his lap.

            "You look fine," Irina purred. It sent shivers through him, which he tried to mask by downing a glass of wine.

            "What is the occasion?" he asked, setting the wine glass down.

            "A couple of things," Sydney filled in. 

            _What things_? Something was up, and it put Sark on alert.

            "An apology, actually," Irina said. "From me for earlier this morning. And a bon voyage for your trip."

            Sark froze. Irina rarely, if ever, apologized. And what trip was he going on?

            "I beg your pardon, Ms. Derevko, but I was out of line this morning," Sark began formally. "And I'm not aware of any trip."

            "That's because it's a surprise," Irina said. _Surprises in this business are rarely good_, Sark thought. "Henry called. It's been a few years now. He wanted to meet with you, see how you're doing."

            Sark was well aware that Sydney was watching him with blatant curiosity. He didn't know what she expected to see, because he didn't even know how he felt.

            But he knew it wasn't just to check up on him. Henry, probably by Irina's orders, was going to train him some more. Wrapping it in the cloak of a reunion was Irina's way of dispelling any unpleasantries.

            Sark smiled probably the most fake smile ever. "Thank you. I look forward to it."

            Both women turned to their meals, and Sark took the opportunity to watch them. Both were calm and showed nothing amiss, but there was something.

            Evidently, both thought he needed more training, which unsettled him. He'd become an expert at all aspects of espionage and running Irina's organization, and now he was being sent back to school?

            For now, he buried it. He glanced up at Sydney, catching her eye. He smiled quickly and turned to his food.

            After the most uncomfortable meal of his life, Sark started up to his room to pack for this sudden journey.

            He took a deep breath when he reached his room. He felt . . . unsure, of himself and what was going on. It seemed like Irina and Sydney were collaborating together. They must have talked about him at least, and based on this trip, it wasn't a good thing.

            Someone knocked at his door. 

            "Come in," he said automatically. He turned to the visitor.

            It was Sydney.

            "I hope I'm not bothering you," she said. Sark shook his head and waved her in. He waited for her to speak.

            "I've been wondering about you," she started. Sark sat down on his bed, sensing this could take awhile. "I realized that I don't know anything about you."

            _That makes two of us_, Sark thought.

            "What would you like to know?" he offered. Sydney shrugged.

            "Anything. Everything."

            Sark smiled at her sudden display of timidity. 

            "You'll have to be more specific. I need a starting point, or this could go on forever," he said. She almost blushed. Sark thought it was charming, and he tried to hold back a grin.

            "Well," Sydney started, brushing her hair behind her right ear, "who is Henry?"

            Sark hesitated. Based on the dinner conversation, he thought Irina had filled her in.

            "Henry trained me," he said. Sydney's eyes pressed him for more information. Sark stood and started pacing the room. "You want more, Sydney?"

            "It'd be nice to have some background." Sark nodded.

            He didn't know how to say any of this. The enigma of Sark depended on isolating details and burying his life. 

            _But the boss's daughter is asking. The woman you are fascinated by is asking_.

            He opened his mouth, closed it and swallowed. He tried again.

            "When I was 17, I was knocking off banks. Henry saved me from the police, and took me in."

            "Then what?" she asked. Sark continued to pace back and forth, but was oblivious to Sydney's light smile at his discomfort.

            "He trained me in weaponry, fighting styles, technology, languages—anything. When I was ready, I was passed on to your mother." 

            "And you've been working for her ever since," Sydney filled in. Sark nodded.

            "Do you like it?" she asked. Sark shot her a questioning look. "Working for my mother?"

            Sark didn't answer. There was no straight, easy answer to that question. Not anymore. 

            Sydney kept studying him. Something about it reminded him of Irina, and something about it made him wonder what her agenda was.

            "Sark?"

            "Yes." It was his answer, and she knew it. Sark just hoped she didn't see through the lie. "How about you? Has it panned out to be all you thought it would?" Sark asked.

  


            Sydney smiled and looked at the floor. "It's different. And even though she lied to me, I'm glad she's not dead."

            "She is your mother, always," Sark commented. Sydney nodded.

            "It's good to be here with her," she said.

            _With her—not me_. He couldn't stop himself from thinking that. But he brushed it aside. Sydney wasn't here for him. Her loyalties were with her mother. Though Sark suspected some interest on Sydney's part, it would never override what Derevko wanted.

            So, Sark admitted to himself, he would lose in the end. _Sydney__ will follow Irina. She'll become like Irina._ That was enough to convince Sark of the hopelessness of his situation.

            "I have to get ready," Sark said softly, interrupting his own train of thought. Sydney nodded and got up slowly.

            She started for the door, but stopped in front of him. With such tenderness that he had never felt before, Sydney caressed his face and rested a hand behind his neck. She looked through his blue eyes, and leaned in to kiss him.

            Their lips met, and such warmth came over Sark that he forgot all of his doubts and worries. He kissed her back, matching her strength and wrapping his arms around her.

            And just like that, it was over. Sydney pulled away, smiling nervously at him. Sark could only look baffled.

            "I'll see you later," she said. With that she left.

            And Sark's heart screamed for her to come back.

            Henry chose to meet in a club in Stockholm, of all places. Sark used the meeting as a social call, and dressed down in light jeans and some gray leather jacket he picked up upon his arrival. He wasn't cold, assassin Sark. Not tonight anyway. He needed to be the boy Henry first met. 

            He wanted to revert to Fabian, maybe just for tonight. But little of Fabian Ross remained inside of Sark. _Just as well_, Sark thought. He would need Sark tonight if his instincts were right.

            The club was well-lit, with wall panels of white light. Sark walked through the crowd, standing tall above others.

            At a small table sat Henry, poised and waiting. Sark nodded at him and approached.

            Henry stood, extending his hand, which Sark shook appropriately. His mentor smiled and motioned to a seat. Sark sat, but looked over the man in front of him.

            He was older, but even when Henry first took in Sark, he wasn't that old. 

            "It's good to see you, Sark," Henry said warmly. Sark gave a tight smile back.

            "So what test is there this time?" he asked. His tone was quick and low. Henry smiled at that.

            "What makes you think this is a test, Sark?" 

            He didn't answer, but just stared Henry down.

            And then, out of nowhere, two guns were aimed at them.


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

            One of the guns belonged to Jack Bristow, and another to some younger agent. That agent grabbed Sark by the back of his neck and slammed his head into the glass table.

            He winced at the impact. His nose instantly went numb, but he was aware of warm blood trickling down his face.

            "Hands," Jack ordered. Sark held them up as he breathed hard through the damaged nose. "Vaughn," Jack prompted.

            _Agent Vaughn_. It was so fitting. The man was obviously very passionate about being here, as he quickly tightened cuffs around Sark's hands to the point of cutting off all circulation. 

            "Where is Sydney?" Vaughn asked impatiently. Sark smirked at him through the blood. The agent didn't hesitate; he smashed Sark's head into the table again.

            "Was that necessary?" Sark said to no one in particular. He stared at Henry, who had adopted a look of complete innocence.

            _There is a test, Henry,_ Sark thought. But Sark never imagined that it would come through the CIA, no doubt by Irina's manipulations.

            Henry was left behind, almost smiling at Sark as he was hauled out of the club. Sark cursed in his mind for not seeing something this extreme.

            And then Agent Vaughn shoved him into a van, stared him in the eye, and shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Sark didn't even get to count to three before he was out.

            He came to in a disturbingly public glass cell. His clothes had been replaced with blue-grey pants and shirt, much like scrubs. Sark tried not to dwell on who stripped him.

            His hands were still cuffed, but at least in front of him. He used his hands the best he could to get up.

            Sark swayed as he stood, and quickly grasped the nearest wall for support.

            _Where am I?_ As if on cue, some bald-headed man appeared.

            "You're in a joint-task force facility of the CIA and FBI. I'm Assistant Director Kendall."

            _So nice of him to introduce himself_.

            "I'd like to know if you're willing to cooperate," he continued. "We have several questions for you."

            Sark didn't hesitate to introduce Kendall to the smirk. He turned away from the glass and started to pace the width of his new cell.

            He heard Kendall say something else, but he frankly didn't care what. When he turned around later, the Assistant Director was gone.

            An hour passed, during which time Sark discovered a metal cot, a sink, an exposed shower and toilet, and nothing else.

            _What, no sheets at least?_ He went over to the faucet and cupped his hands to drink some water. He drank heavily; tranq darts often made one thirsty.

            When he finished, he noticed he wasn't alone anymore.

            Two guards started into his cell. Sark stood still, waiting for them. They grabbed him and half picked him up. Another guard, this one with a gun trained on him, accompanied his escort to wherever they were headed.

            Sark found himself in a dark concrete room, with only a chair, a hanging light and a two-way mirror. The guards forced him to sit, then left him.

            _They wouldn't leave me alone_, Sark thought. He noticed a shadow in the corner.

            Jack Bristow emerged. Sark imitated Jack's own blank stare, but added his trademark smirk.

            "Where is Sydney?" he began. Sark tilted his chin to the air.

            "What makes you think I know?" he countered. Jack circled Sark and the chair.

            "We know you were stalking her." The disdain in his voice when he said 'stalking' was filled with hate and emotion, but ever other word was measured. Sark rolled his eyes.

            "Surveilling her, and someone like you should know the difference," Sark said. Jack kept his blank look on.

            "Did you convince her to run?" was the next question. Sark feigned indifference.

            "She didn't need any convincing. Your CIA drove her away," Sark answered.

            "Drove her to you?" 

            Sark didn't answer.

            "Is Irina Derevko alive?"

            Nothing. Sark wondered how long Jack would stay calm.

            "How long have you worked for Derevko?" A thought came to him.

            "Why not call her Laura?" Sark suggested sarcastically. He heard Jack's circling falter.

            "So you know the story," Jack replied. "Did you lure Sydney away with promises of answers about her mother?" Sark rolled his eyes again, though Jack didn't see.

            He actually didn't care about giving the CIA answers. His loyalty to Irina was hardly in place, but he wasn't interested in exacting revenge either. To him, silence was a means of protecting himself too. 

            "Why did you go after Sydney?" Jack tried again. 

            _Sydney_. He didn't really want to think of her in any depth. As far as he was concerned, at least Irina set him up.

            Jack suddenly grabbed Sark's chair, pushing it forward. Sark rolled to the floor, wincing as he hit the ground.

            "I'd hate to have to inflict any pain on you, Mr. Sark," Jack said eerily. "I can do a much better job than has already been done on you." He pointed to Sark's bruise and torso. "What happened anyway? Irina get fed up with you?"

            Sark started to get up, but Jack pushed him down with a shiny wingtip. Sark stayed down, on his back and looking up for whatever was next.

            "You should know, Jack," Sark said, "that this line of work is dangerous."

            Jack raised an eyebrow. "And your injuries are just results of the hazards?"

            "I've had my share of run-ins with opposition," Sark said smoothly, still laying on the floor.

            Jack stood over him, and nudged his left side. Sark suppressed a groan, but Jack pressed harder until Sark cried out.

            "You know," Sark said between painful breaths, "it'll never heal if people keep kicking it open." Jack gave Sark his own smirk.

            "So I'm not the first? Pity," Jack said. He lunged forward, picking Sark up by the shirt, and threw him into the wall.

            Sark heard something crack as his body hit the concrete wall, then floor. He slowly sat up, leaning against the wall. His chest heaved as he tried to get air back in him. _Jack's not in bad shape for his age_.

            Daddy Bristow leaned over Sark. His pupils were small and angry.

            "Where is my daughter?" he demanded with a menacing tone. Sark rested his head against the wall, allowing him to look Jack directly in those beady eyes.

            "I'm sorry you've lost track of your daughter. But I am not in a position to help." Sark's voice was as polite and honest as he could make it.

            Jack obviously wasn't very pleased with that. He grabbed Sark by the shirt again, lifting him to his feet and slamming him into the wall.

            Sark groaned and lost any breath in his lungs.

            "You'll have to do better," Jack said, seething. With that, he socked Sark in the stomach, hard. The hit clipped his diaphragm, and Sark couldn't breathe. He felt a black cloud come over him and weakness take over.

            He passed out.

            Coming to a second time, Sark found himself on that metal cot. His body ached worse than it had in days, and his breathing felt abnormally shallow.                                              

            Jack knew his vulnerabilities, physically, and Sark knew Jack would continue to exploit them.

            Sark shifted his body to lay flat on his back. His back cried out in protest, and so he tried lying on his right side. It was better. He rested a few minutes before getting up.

            Sark started pacing in his cell. There was no mirror to examine his appearance, but Sark noticed his reflection in the glass. With a quick check of the empty hall, Sark pull up his shirt and looked at his reflection. 

            His back was a giant red mark. _At least it's not bruised._ He couldn't say the same about his stomach. He examined his knife wound next.

            The bandages had been changed since his arrival, but even so he could see blood seeping through the gauze. _Courtesy of Jack_, Sark thought. He dropped the ends of his shirt and continued pacing.

            _Sydney__._ Did she know about her mother's setup for him? She seemed so genuine and caring in his room. _But was it an act to throw you off?_ Was she just screwing with his mind? The idea that Sark fell for that didn't sit well with him.

            He wanted to believe she wasn't the monster he was seeing glimpses of. But she seemed more and more like her mother. Irina had played Jack. Now, it seemed, Sydney had played Sark.

            Two hours later, Agent Vaughn stood before the glass. _Awaiting an audience from me already_.

            Sark paced in front of the glass, as if circling his new visitor. In doing so he noticed the man's appearance. His eyes were droopy, and the man had enough wrinkles on his forehead to make a Chinese Sharpe jealous.

            "Where is Sydney?" he asked. Sark sighed and rolled his eyes at the agent.

            "I believe we've covered this before, unsuccessfully, if I recall correctly," he answered.

            "Tell me what you know, Sark." The way his named was spat out of Vaughn's mouth made him almost laugh.

            "Why, Agent Vaughn?" Sark noticed a few prominent veins on the wrinkled forehead stand out. And then he was positive that Vaughn had more than professional interest in Sydney. 

            "Miss your girlfriend?" Sark taunted him.

            "I'll ask the questions. Have you seen her?" Vaughn asked, the strain of the situation in his voice. Sark smirked freely.

            "I've kissed her. I think my eyes were closed for part of it, but I do recall seeing her in the process." He said it nonchalantly, and that just irked Vaughn even more. 

            Vaughn shifted his weight back and forth, which showed off his lack of control. Sark smirked harder.

            "I doubt Sydney would kiss a monster like you," Vaughn responded weakly. 

            "Really? She even initiated it," Sark said, "both times." The agent blanched at that, and Sark barely suppressed a laugh.

            "Are you through?" Vaughn asked, trying to hold it together.

            "She's seen me with my shirt off too," Sark added. He knew he was bordering on immature, but frankly it was more than worth it to see Vaughn squirm.

            "One day," the agent said lowly, "I will have the opportunity to kill you. And I won't hesitate to take advantage of that." With that, he turned and started to retreat down the hallway.

            Sark called after him.

            "Didn't you have that opportunity when you captured me?" Vaughn didn't look back. 

            _Score one for the prisoner_. 

            Sark knew he gave up some info about Sydney, like knowing her and admitting he'd seen her. But he hadn't released anything critical. 

            Irina's test now was whether or not he'd betray her. Sark could care less about the test portion of it. However, he wasn't one for revenge.

            Well, he sort of was. But he didn't want to take anyone on from a glass cell. With Sydney, he wouldn't put anything in motion anyway, not until he knew for certain if she had set him up.

            His instincts told him she was totally on Irina's side, but Sark held onto a glimmer of hope that maybe she cared for him.

            Maybe.

            Sark rested for a couple more hours, though uncomfortably. Then he got up and started stretching out his sore and bruised body.

            He laid on the floor and tried to do some sit-ups without gasping. His side still screamed in protest, but he pushed himself to relish the pain and overcome it.

            Pushups were next; those required more effort than usual also, but he was pleased the pain wasn't too bad.

            He did two sets of fifty of each exercise. It wasn't an exorbitant amount, but given his physical condition, it would do. Besides, he still had quite a few hours in the cell, and he imagined sculpting his body would become a favorite pastime.

            Jack Bristow showed up again, though after two days of solitary. Sark was actually pleased to have some time alone, to think and heal. But Jack's arrival also presented a challenge that Sark was excited about.

            He planned to come out on top and show these bureaucratic idiots who had the power.

            "Mr. Bristow," Sark greeted with a sarcastic smile. "A pleasure to see you again." Jack never cracked his stony mask. Instead, he motioned and two guards came into Sark's cell and escorted him to another interrogation room.

            This one was much like the first, though with a reclining chair that had chains on it. 

            "Mmmhhhm," Sark started. "Imagine all the fun that could be had in here." Jack just maintained that stony face while the two guards ordered Sark around.

            "Remove your shirt," one said. Sark gave him an incredulous look.

            "If that's really what you want." The cuffs were removed so Sark could comply, but a gun was always trained on him.

            The guards roughly shoved Sark against the chair, which with its position held Sark up as if standing. He watched passively as his wrists were chained down and his legs as well. A large belt wrapped his waist to the chair. When he was secure, the guards left him to Jack.

            "I must admit I didn't expect this sort of action by the CIA," Sark said with indifference. "SD-6, of course, but not the paragon of virtue American government." 

            Jack grabbed a regular chair and sat in front of Sark. 

            "How did you know about SD-6?" 

            Sark knew Jack wanted him to give something away about Irina in his answer, but thought the attempt was stupid.

            "I have files, like everyone else," he answered.

            "There are many other agencies fooled by SD-6," Jack countered. Sark didn't respond. "How long have you worked for your employer?"

            Sark immediately noticed that he didn't name Irina this time.

            "I work for my best interests, Mr. Bristow."

            "And how often do those interests align with Irina Derevko's?" 

            Sark smirked at Jack's obvious attempt.

            "Mr. Bristow, we're both intelligent men," he said calmly, even though the cool and damp air of the room was getting to him. "Don't insult me or waste my time with questions we both know I won't answer."

            Jack almost smiled at that, and it made Sark flinch. He hadn't expected any break in the facade.

            "Mr. Sark, you'll eventually answer my questions, and I'm not concerned with time. I anticipate you'll be in our custody for a long portion of your life." With that, Jack turned to leave.

            He left and for a moment, Sark wondered why he'd been left alone.

            Then the door opened again, and two men in dark suits and identical black ties entered.

            "Mr. Sark. We're from the NSA. We have some questions about Irina Derevko."

            Sark wasn't sure who actually spoke, but it didn't matter. He was about to be interrogated.

            He told them nothing. But they didn't give up trying. The interrogations came daily. Sark used the time in between to rest and recover. 

            After a week, he gave up on sit-ups. Pushups were still possible, but they hurt like Hades. 

            He started to wonder how long until he found a way out.

            He wondered how much longer he would last.

            It wasn't terrible; well, it wasn't a spring picnic either, but Sark knew he could last. However, he was starting to get bored, with the questions, the pain, and the routine.

            About 2 p.m. every day, the guards would come for him. After an hour or three, he was escorted back and dropped onto the cell floor. He would normally be passed out or resting until 8 p.m.  Then he'd drag himself up and take a shower, washing away the sweat and blood.

            After that, he'd sleep until 4 a.m. The exercises he could still do were done then. He followed that with meditation and ate what little they gave him. He wouldn't ever eat lunch; the interrogations normally made lunch revisit him, so he stopped eating it immediately.

            But suddenly one day, 2 o'clock rolled around and no one came. _Odd_, he thought. He almost banged on the windows to remind them, but thought better of it.

            The next day, no one came again. Not until later. 

            It was roughly 9 p.m. when he realized what happened. Sark heard someone approaching his cell, and looked up from his cot.

            There, looking beautiful yet deadly, was Sydney.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

            He tried to hide his surprise. That deadliness in her look was almost annoyance.

            "Miss Bristow," he greeted. "If anyone should look miffed, I assure you it's me." Sark rolled off the cot slowly and stood gingerly. She watched every move, scrutinizing him. 

            "You look sore," she commented. Sark smirked.

            "Your NSA doesn't seem to have any qualms about questionable interrogation techniques," he said, trying to be neutral about it. "I guess they're very motivated in finding Irina Derevko."

            She studied the floor, suddenly finding it more fascinating than him. _Is that guilt I'm seeing?_

            Sark cleared his throat.

            "So you're back, I take it," he said. She nodded. 

            "I brought back what I learned from the organization," Sydney said.

            "Nice play," Sark said softly.

            "The CIA has exonerate me, given what I've brought back."

            "The least they could do," said Sark. "How'd you get away?" That wasn't the question he wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to ask her for the truth . . . about him.

            "My mother sent me on an op," Sydney said. "I completed it, but brought the spoils back to the CIA."

            "In some twisted way, I'm sure she's proud." His blue eyes gazed at her. He looked silently for several moments.

            "What?" she asked. He looked away and paced around.

            "Nothing." He cleared his throat. "So the NSA and CIA got all the info they wanted?"

            Sydney shook her head. "I only knew so much. But we have enough to start planning a takedown."

            The gates down the hall started squeaking, and suddenly Agent Vaughn appeared.

            "Sydney," he said, eying Sark, "your dad wants to speak with you."

            Sark gave Vaughn his smirk. Vaughn just glared at him.

            "Okay." With that, Vaughn whisked her away. Sydney glanced back at Sark, who stood as indifferent as he could.

            _Who am I fooling?_

            The routine began again the next afternoon.

            The sounds of the gates lifting interrupted Sark's thoughts. He looked for the newcomer.

            It was that Kendall man, as well as one of the NSA guys. Sark suppressed a groan of anticipation.

            "Agent Bristow has provided us with crucial intel about Irina Derevko's operation. Which makes you—"

            "A devalued commodity," Sark finished as if bored. "So when do you raid Derevko's headquarters?"

            "Derevko undoubtedly knows Sydney left. So she's probably on the run. Where would she go next?" 

            Sark smirked. "What happened to the devalued commodity bit?"

            "I don't think you want to be devalued. It could cause your death."

            Sark laughed, which obviously threw off Kendall. 

            "Then kill me already," Sark dared him. Kendall just stared at him, with his extended forehead wrinkling.

            "The NSA would like to speak with you," he said, pointing to one of the NSA men. As if on cue, two guards came into Sark's cell. They cuffed him roughly and jostled him down the hall.

            Sark woke up later, probably around his usual 8 p.m. His body was sprawled out on the cold floor. His shirt lay discarded by him.

            Sark coughed, then automatically clutched his torso. The session was worse than most. As usual, Sark gave them nothing; to him, it was the principal of the matter. No one forced anything from him. It did help, though, that this time his resolve was strengthened by knowing Sydney was back.

            And she was apparently good, which again threw him. But he felt . . . betrayed. Again.

            He stumbled to the shower, wincing as the hot spray seared his chest. He was bleeding again.

            _Surprise, surprise_.

            Sark wrapped a towel around his waist, and went to the sink for a drink of water. The cool water soothed his throat, which was raw from the screams he let loose against his will.

            Something caught his eye. Sark looked to the glass.

            _Sydney_. She looked immaculate, in another dark suit and her hair shining down past her shoulders.

            She also looked . . . sympathetic.

            That bothered Sark. Without appearing too hasty or uncomfortable, he grabbed his pants. He slid them on underneath the towel, miraculously maintaining a little bit of modesty.

            He moved for his shirt, still left on the floor, when she spoke.

            "That cut still hasn't healed," she said, indicating his wound from the Vatican. Sark didn't look at her, but tried to bend over and get his shirt.

            The movement sent pain shooting through him. He gasped before he could stop himself.

            "Your friends have been digging around in it," he said between breaths. "What do you want, Sydney?"

            "I thought I owed you an explanation," she said carefully. Sark smirked at that.

            "Owe me an explanation?" He huffed at that. "Me, the terrible assassin and monster." He gave up on his shirt for now, while well aware that the sight of the injuries on his chest put a guilt trip on her. He used his towel and rubbed it through his hair.

            "I know you didn't have a choice."

            Sark froze.

            "I beg your pardon?" he said just a touch too politely to keep up his anger.

            "Henry. He basically sold you to Irina. And Irina would have killed you if you left," Sydney explained.

            "And how did you come to that conclusion, Sydney?" Sark asked with dwindling sarcasm.

            She tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. "Deductive reasoning."

            "Intriguing," Sark mocked. He couldn't help but be angry. Seeing her, scot-free and not suffering . . . He didn't want her to suffer, but part of him wanted her to realize what she'd done—to him.

            "Are you . . . angry?" she asked softly, a little perplexed. Sark shot her a look and chucked his towel toward the shower.

            "Deductive reasoning again, Sydney?"

            She sighed in response.

            "I have to hand it to you," Sark started. "You had me completely fooled. I thought you would have betrayed me at the Vatican. I fully expected it, especially after our meeting at the zoo."

            "That was—" 

            "But then," Sark cut her off, "you surprised me. You murdered that guard. That threw off any understanding I thought I had of you." He stopped to catch his breath.

            "Why, because I acted like I thought you would have?" she shot back. Sark paced to the sink. He gulped down some more water.

            "Enough with condemning my actions!" He wiped his mouth. "I've had enough things hanging over me without your help."

            "Like you have a conscience," she spat back.

            Sark glared at her. "Evidently, more than you do." Sydney took a step back. Her face looked shocked, as if he just hit her.

            Both settled into a moment of silence. Finally, she spoke.

            "I had to be convincing," she said. Her voice grew stronger as she continued. "And if that meant I had to kill in front of you, save your life, and get close—"

            She stopped there. The cat was out of the bag. Sark nodded slowly, and tried to ignore the pain where his heart used to be.

            "You had to get close to me," Sark finished. He tried not to show anything, any pain or emotion. 

            Sark sat down on the metal cot.

            "Was it your idea or Irina's to set me up in Stockholm?" he asked.

            "Mine," she answered. That pain stabbed at his chest again. "But she planned on removing you for awhile anyway."

            "And you already had the contacts," Sark filled in, trying to be indifferent. "You just sent the word along." 

            It was settled; she had betrayed him.

            "There was another reason," Sydney said.

            Sark suppressed a laugh. _As if all the reasons justify it. _"What reason was that, Sydney?"

            "By giving you to the CIA, I got you away from my mother. Given your background, I thought that's what you wanted."

            She sounded meek when she said that. Sark laughed at her.

            "My background? I might have been recruited without any say, but I can take care of myself. I planned on disappearing soon, but your little setup got in the way," Sark ranted. "And now, I'm in the custody of the CIA, with the NSA ripping me up every day!"

            His chest heaved with exertion from the interrogation session and his ravings with Sydney.

            "Nice try at justification, Sydney," he said when he calmed down enough. "But I was better off on my own."

            She was quiet, studying the floor and avoiding his piercing eyes.

            "I'll have some bandages sent in," she said. With that, she left, and Sark slumped onto the metal cot.

            He couldn't sleep after that. He kept thinking about Sydney and what she said.

            Yes, she betrayed him. She set him up. But she claimed to do it to help him.

            _What twisted logic that was_, he thought. But didn't that show that she cared? He debated that for a few hours, until he realized it didn't matter.

            He was in a glass cage, at the mercy of the CIA and anyone they authorized. His escape from the world of espionage and life of deserved rest were on hold, possibly eliminated altogether. 

            And he would never be in a position to be with Sydney.

            He'd tried to not admit it, but that's what he wanted more than anything.

            At 9 a.m., Jack Bristow showed up. Sark had just begun to drift off to sleep, but Jack got his attention by banging on the glass.

            Sark did well enough not to fall off the cot.

            "Mr. Bristow," Sark started with a smidgen of sarcasm. "What brings you here this morning?" 

            Jack threw something into the two-way slot in the wall. Sark got up slowly and went to the slot. Inside the drop box were bandages and an antibiotic cream. 

            "Sydney requested these on your behalf," Jack said. His voice was strained, and Sark knew a warning was coming next. 

            "Thank you."

            He had never put his shirt back on last night, so started to spread the ointment on the long cut and other abrasions. He unrolled the bandage, but stopped.

            "Should I bother with this, or is the NSA planning more fun and games today?" Sark asked. Jack almost smiled.

            "I'd keep it off until after 2 o'clock."

            Sark nodded.

            "I came here to warn you to stay away from Sydney," Jack said. Sark laughed.

            "Of course, especially since I have such easy access to her," he said. Jack just stared at him.

            "I'm aware that she has come to you. But you will stop manipulating her," Jack said, "and answer any of her questions directly."

            "Have you actually watched the surveillance tapes, Mr. Bristow?" Sark said. "There were hardly any questions. As for manipulations, they were all done by her."

            Jack continued his death stare.

            "You know what that's like, don't you, Jack?" Sark pushed the right button, though he had to commend Jack for not losing it.

            "I would appreciate it," Jack began, "if you did not compare my daughter to Irina Derevko."

            Sark capped off the ointment, rubbing the excess off on his pants.

            "There are many similarities between the two," Sark said, pushing his boundaries. "But I apologize if any of them offend you."

            Jack didn't say anything, but just walked away from the cell.

            He couldn't place his finger on it, but something about that conversation didn't seem . . . normal. It wasn't just the setting, but . . . it was almost civil.

            _Hhmmmm_. 

            Sydney showed up later that afternoon. Sark's favorite NSA goons didn't show, so by 2:30, Sark wrapped his torso with the bandages.

            He had his shirt on just as Sydney showed up.

            _Pity. I could show off so more_. 

            "How are you feeling?" she asked.

            Sark gave her an incredulous look "Peachy," he said. "What can I do for you?"

            "We're going after Derevko. I leave tonight." She let that hang in the air.

            "You want me to go over the mission specs, and make sure you're on the right track," Sark said.

            Sydney nodded. "I know you probably will say no, but I thought I'd ask anyway." She had a file in her hands.

            Sark eyed it, then her, then the file again.

            He nodded. "Show me."

            She passed him the file, and he began reviewing it. Right off the bat, he saw problems.

            "There are several flaws here, and some not easily remedied," he said.

            "Like what?"

            He pointed to a section of the mission brief. "This access point—you need proper clearance. And the tentative schematics of the building are completely off." He paused as he read on.

            "What are you after?" he asked.

            "Derevko, and any intel and artifacts at this location," Sydney said. "And we have reason to believe there is a weapon there that shouldn't be in her hands."

            Sark smirked at that.

            "There are few weapons that should be in her hands. But you're right," he said. "This location would be beneficial to the CIA, given its objectives."

            He passed the file back to her.

            "So how do we get around the problems?"

            Sark sighed. "You need voice, code, and fingerprints for access. And the building layout—well, you just have to know it."

            Sydney looked at him, hard. Her eyes searched his face for something—he didn't know what—but he held her gaze back.

            "I've been authorized to ask you to come with us," she said finally. Sark was half-surprised at that.

            He didn't move. "I'd like to say I'm flattered, but I don't know why your agency would take that risk, especially since they've been ticking me off with their bedside manner."

            "We'll have precautions in place," she answered. "Will you help us?"

            Sark looked her directly in the eyes. "I'll help you."


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

            Jack, Sydney and a few guards watched carefully as a tracking device was placed in his chest.

            _As if I don't have enough pain there already_, Sark thought as the tracker was shot beneath his skin. _Although . . . _it did give him another chance to show off to Sydney.

            They left him with a change of black fatigues, then escorted him out of the joint task force center. He couldn't help feel like the devil as he was escorted out. Agents and analysts, even secretaries, stopped in their tracks and just stared.

            _Forget the devil_. He felt like a celebrity.

            The CIA gave him no weapon, and he had two agents whose main priority was just to guard him. Even so, Sydney stayed by him. And Agent Vaughn stayed by Sydney.

            _Overprotective twit_.

            The flight to the target was long and quiet. Sark kept looking at Sydney, but she wouldn't look back. Any thing he wanted to say to her or to hear from her was out of the question with Agent Twit around.

            They arrived outside the target building 10 minutes ahead of schedule. 

            "Okay, Sark will get us through the access point, while Agent Weiss overrides surveillance," Vaughn instructed in the van.

            _Oh please,_ Sark thought_. They made the twit the team leader?!_

            They headed out. The sky was dark and cloudy, which worked well for invisibility. Sark led the way.

            Two of Irina's men normally guarded the access point. They would be on full alert. The plan was to use a flash-bang to take them out, but that was ridiculous to Sark.

            "Agent Vaughn, give me a tranq gun with two darts," he said. Vaughn gave him a are-you-kidding-me look. Sark sighed. "Why alert everyone to our presence?  I can take them out as I enter the access code."

            "There is no way I'm giving you any sort of gun." Sark rolled his eyes.

            "Sark's right," Sydney jumped in. "We'll be right behind him, and he only asked for two darts. That'll take care of the guards, and no one else."

            "Unless he just tells the guards we're right behind him," Vaughn objected.

            "Agent Vaughn, Irina Derevko set me up to be captured by the CIA. Do you honestly think I'm eager to go back and work for her?" Sark pointed out.

            "It made you not answer the CIA or NSA's questions," Vaughn shot back.

            Sark sighed. "A man has to keep his pride somehow."

            "We need to move, Vaughn," Sydney said. He nodded, with a sigh of his own.

            Someone shoved a tranq gun in Sark's hands.

            "Ready?" he asked the team behind him. In total, with Sydney, Vaughn, and the others, there were five agents.

            Vaughn glared at him, but finally nodded.

            "All right then," Sark said. He cocked the tranq gun and held it by his side as he jumped out of the van and walked quickly to the entrance.

            As soon as he came to the access point, the guards saw him. Sark quickly raised the gun and shot both. They were down before they could level their guns at him.

            "Entrance clear," he said into his comms piece.

            The team filed in quickly, and Sark started on the access.

            He punched in the code on a keypad, then laid his hand on a biometric scanner.

            "Skavender dar svid," he said smoothly. The display blink a green 'clearance granted.' "Let's go," he said to everyone behind him.

            The building was dark. That was Sark's first clue. "She knows we're here," he said softly.

            "What?" Vaughn and Sydney said simultaneously. They checked the hallways.

            "It's never this quiet or dark here. They know we're coming." 

            "How do we proceed?" Vaughn asked. Sark almost smiled at that. _Can't think on his own_.

            "Cautiously. Irina will step up security," Sark said. "And given how quiet it is, they're waiting for us." That concerned him, more than anything because he had only an empty tranq gun.

            "Where are the weapon and artifacts?"

            "Up the stairs. Eighth level, in the middle of the floor," Sark answered. "Best way to get there is down that hallway," he said, pointing. "Expect guards at least on every floor, near the targets and the elevators."

            Vaughn signaled for Weiss and the other two to go. "Sydney and I will be guarding you. Lead us to Irina's office."

            Sark glared at him. "I need a gun." Before the agent could object, Sark cut in. "I'm as much as a threat to them as you are. I need to be able to protect myself."

            "Vaughn, he's right," Sydney said. Sark loved it when she cut in on his behalf. He could almost kiss her for it.

            _Like you don't want to anyway_. Sark shook his head clear. _Not now_.

            Vaughn mumbled something unintelligible, which made Sark's victory that much more sweet. Sydney pulled out her spare and handed it to him. As she did, she held onto it, getting his attention before giving him the gun.

            "Don't prove me wrong," Sydney warned him. Sark smirked at that.

            "If any of us has a track record for double crosses, it's not me."

            Sark took the gun and immediately checked it. He noticed Vaughn looked very twitchy as he did.

            "Agent Vaughn, would you please not shoot me right now?" he said sarcastically. "Of all things, to be shot by an imbecile who's trigger-happy."

            Sydney didn't look to happy when he said that. _She'll get over it._

            "You're one to talk about being trigger-happy," Vaughn said back. Sydney stepped between the two.

            "Can we all focus please?" She looked like a stern mother, which automatically made Vaughn back off. Sark just smirked at that. "Sark, lead the way to Derevko's office."

            He nodded. "Top floor, southwest corner."

            He started up the south staircase. He looked up as he ascended. There were no indications of any guards, which to Sark was an indication in itself.

            "Did your man deactivate surveillance?" Sark whispered after passing a camera and the third floor.

            "Yes," he heard Vaughn answer. 

            They were outside the top floor, and still hadn't heard anything. Sark's pulse raced, something he rarely felt so consciously.

            _Something's wrong_.

            But he didn't know what. Outside the 14th floor, Sark nodded to Vaughn, who stood ready to pull open the door. Sark raised his gun at the door, though he was tempted to move it toward Vaughn.

            The agent quickly yanked open the door, and Sark rushed into the hallway.

            Left, right, everything was clear. He tried to steady his breathing, but his instincts had more control over his body.

            Sark stalked quietly to the southwest corner. He consciously lifted up one boot-clad foot at a time, placing it one in front of the other slowly.

            Just as he reached the door to Irina's office, he heard a struggle behind him.

            Sark whirled around. Several men had converged on Vaughn, knocking him to the ground. They grabbed Sydney, and Sark raised his gun.

            He heard something behind him, and before he could turn around, he knew they'd walked into a trap.

            Sark ducked, and lashed out a kick directly behind him. He whirled around again, and found three men in front of him.

            One was down, thanks to his kick, but the other two, one short, one tall, were ready for him. The tall one threw a punch, but went wide. Sark used the man's momentum and threw the punch into the shorter person. The first opponent was up again and raised his gun. Sark dove to the side.

            He slid on the floor, hearing a gun fire behind him. Sark twisted his body so he continued the slid on his back. He saw one of the ambush team, and shot at him.

            The man went down with a quick yell.

            The other two that faced him were regrouping. He didn't know what was happening with Sydney or Vaughn.

            "Put your gun down!!" someone yelled.

            _Yeah right_. Sark huddled in the shadows. He saw someone creeping closer, and quickly fired.

            The man didn't even make a sound as he fell to the floor.

            "Do as he says, Sark," came a voice behind him. Sark almost jumped.

            He recognized that voice. _Irina_. At the same time, he felt a gun pressed to his head. He froze.

            _Why didn't I see her_? He didn't dwell on that. 

            "You know I would shoot you," she reminded him. Sark dropped the gun, and it clattered loudly to the floor. Irina pushed him forward, the gun still pressuring the back of his head.

            Two shots rang out, and Sark saw two of Irina's men fall.

            _Sydney. _ She was still up.

            She appeared in the hallway, gun aimed at the next target. She paused when she saw her mother and Sark.

            "Careful, Sydney," Irina said, her voice soothed. "You don't want to shoot Sark." Sark frankly didn't want to test that theory, but Irina was using him as a shield and hostage.

            "What makes you think that?" Sydney said as she slowly paced forward. 

            Sark could hear the smirk in Irina's voice. "I'm your mother. And I'm not blind; you feel something for him." Sydney glared at her mother defiantly.

            "Yeah, it's called disgust," she said. Sark rolled his eyes.

            "I am here, you know," Sark reminded them. "I can hear you."

            "Shut up," mother and daughter said simultaneously.

            "What do you want?" Sydney said. She was closing in, only 15 feet away. 

            "I want you to come back," Irina answered. "Stop right there, Sydney." Her warning made Sydney slow her pace, but not stop it.

            Sark heard Irina whip out something metallic and felt her press it to his throat. _Knife—great_.

            "You're killing him, Sydney." Irina increased the pressure of the blade on him. Sark held his breath. 

            Sydney stopped in her tracks. Sark heard other footsteps approach. _More of Irina's men_.

            "You think I would come back?" Sydney started, ignoring the newcomers. Her skepticism was clear. "You left me years ago. You betrayed me and Dad, and you betrayed our country!"

            "I did what I was trained to," Irina said loudly. "Sark has done what he was trained to. And yet you can forgive him, but not me."

            Sydney glared back. "Hardly. You went on and became a constant enemy to the United States."

            Irina laughed at that. "Do you think I was going to just retire and sit around? Do you think Sark will when he's free?"

            That made Sydney think, and that scared Sark. He was losing her.

            "Why would you trust me again?" Sydney asked. _Is she actually considering this?!_

            He heard Irina's breath catch in her throat. She was getting hopeful, which was more evidence that Sydney was thinking about the proposal.

            "If you can trust me again, I can certainly trust you," Irina replied. Sydney started to lower her gun.

            "Sydney, no!" Sark shouted, ignoring the knife for now. "You couldn't possibly do this—" He shut up except for a slight cry of pain. Irina's knife was cutting into his flesh.

            "Mom, no!" Sark saw Sydney raise her gun and fire.

            It was high, but on purpose. Irina ducked, releasing Sark in the process. Out of the corner of his eye, Sark saw one of Irina's men take aim at Sydney.

            He didn't hesitate. Sark took one step and lunged for Sydney. 

            He heard the shot as he felt something rip through him. His body hit hers to the floor. Another shot rang out, but Sark heard Irina protest. Her voice faded away, as if she was on the run.

            He saw Sydney jump up and fired after her mother and her men. Sark moved to follow, but fell back to the floor. Stinging pain shot through him, like an electrical fire. He gasped, and clutched the wound.

            The bullet hit his right shoulder. Sark tried to ignore the pain and think. _I should go. Escape._

_            I've been shot._

_            Run._

_Sydney__._

            He heard footsteps, and suddenly found Sydney standing over him.

            "Are you all right?" she asked. He nodded, but didn't believe himself. He tried to sit up, and only succeeded because Sydney helped.

            "What now?" he asked. "Are your men all right?" 

            Sydney shook her head. "Two are dead. Weiss is coming up from the eighth floor. He survived that ambush." She paused. "Vaughn's unconscious."

            Sark tried to look appropriately upset by that.

            Sydney shook her head, and started examining his wounds. Her fingertips trailed over his neck.

            "Your neck's fine. It shouldn't even scar," she commented. She focused on his shoulder. "The bullet is still lodged inside."

            "That would explain it," Sark said aloud, more to himself than Sydney. She stopped poking at him, and looked deep into his eyes. 

            Sark returned the gaze.

            "You saved my life," she said softly. He smiled at that.

            "Then we're even."

            She shook her head, and quickly stood up. "No, not yet." With that, she pulled him to his feet. Sark groaned as she did.

            "You have to go, quickly," she said, whispering. "Before Vaughn wakes up and Weiss gets here." Sark just stared at her. She gave him a slight slap on the face. "Focus, Sark. There's a taser in the van. Get it, and shock yourself to kill the tracker."

            "You're letting me go?" he said finally. She nodded.

            "But you have to hurry." With that, she pushed him towards the stairs. At the door, Sark stopped her. He saw something in her brown eyes, and felt something he didn't dare hope for before.

            "Sydney, I—"

            "Syd, Mike?!" Agent Weiss had arrived somewhere on the floor. Sydney glanced around, then proceeded to push Sark to the stairwell.

            He stopped her again and used his good arm to put a hand behind her head as he kissed her fiercely. It was only seconds, but the elation he felt from it made the pain in his shoulder almost dissipate.

            He wanted to say so many things, but there was no time. With a long glance back at her, Sark escaped down the stairwell and out of the building.


	23. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

            Sark made sure he was somewhat far away from the CIA and the building before he shocked himself. The jolt of electricity was hardly pleasant, especially considering the gunshot wound. But he survived, even without passing out. 

            He stole some clothes and hair dye, changing his appearance for the journey. After the light jeans, golf shirt, jacket, and black hair, he figured he could make an appearance in public.

            He grabbed a train to a major city, then took a flight to Poland. Once in Poland he allowed himself to stop at a hospital and get his shoulder taken care of.

            He went on to Moscow, then St. Petersburg, to Germany and Switzerland, to Paris and Lisbon, and finally felt comfortable landing in London. 

            In London, he started consolidating his assets. He transferred a significant amount of money to a bank in Australia, and headed for Sydney.

            Of course, being in that city held his thoughts hostage on one woman. Sydney had fooled him to the end. He thought about what Irina had said. _Sark has done what he was trained to. And yet you can forgive him . . ._ Could Sydney forgive him? Had she?

            Could he forgive her?

            Sark chewed on that thought for a bit. He thought about her, how much her existence even had changed him since that first encounter in Jerusalem.

            _Yes_. He could forgive her. He admired her; not just because he was intoxicated by her beauty, or recognized her skills as an agent—but he admired her as a woman. And that told him he really already had forgiven her.

            She really ran him in circles, trying to figure her out and understand her. But part of what he loved about her was her spontaneity.

            _Love_. 

            _Did I just think that? _He did, and now he wondered what that meant.

            _It means I need her_. Sark felt refreshed as that realization surfaced. He needed Sydney.

            Sark used his money transfer to buy a nice, secluded estate in New Zealand. It was a twenty minute drive from any center of town, and calling them towns was generous. But that's what Sark needed to keep under anyone's radar.

            It was a quaint town. Nice and lush greenery filled the land, and the people were nice enough. Sark didn't try to form any friendships. He hadn't in years, so why start now? That, and the CIA and Irina both had it in for him.

            His estate was a nice sized house on three acres of land. The house was covered in a stone facade, and Sark liked to think that was somewhat symbolic.

            Eight bedrooms, only one of which he ever used, a study, a library, a formal dining hall, a kitchen, and even a recreational room were included. The grounds were nicely landscaped, and Sark hired a local teenager to come and tend to it all. Sark figured he was helping the boy earn an honest living, something he never had done.

            Life was quiet, and it stayed that way for the first month that Sark lived there. By the end of that month, he realized (with the help of various contacts) that no one had any idea where he was. 

            Sark left the solitude of his estate and hopped on a series of flights. His final destination: Los Angeles.

            Sydney seemed back to normal, and Sark used that term loosely. SD-6 seemed too pleased to have her back to question her whereabouts and loyalties, and the CIA was too busy with its search for Derevko to question how Sark got away.

            Sark appreciated that. 

            He watched her from afar, making sure she was accessible without the knowledge of any real or fake government agency. He also wanted to make sure she wouldn't suddenly turn him in. Pretending to be a college student and blending with the masses became the perfect solution.

            He'd kept his hair black, but the blond roots were starting to show. Sark didn't mind—it seemed to look 'cool' and oddly natural given his fellow students.

            Today he chose drab-colored cargo pants and a white intramural t-shirt that he swiped from some student activities table. Sunglasses were a must, and for added effect, Sark kept his nose in a book.

            He waited outside classrooms, sometimes in classrooms, and sometimes watched her from across the library. She looked . . . good. Happy. But when she was alone, away from Francie or Will, he could see a touch of sadness.

            He hoped it was because of him.

            The L.A. Flower House had nice selection of flowers, but New Zealand's national flower was severely overpriced. Sark had hundreds of them outside his estate there, but the supply here was far less. But it would be worth it, assuming Sydney figured out what it meant.

            She would just be finishing up her last class of the day, and Sark knew, being Friday, she would probably come home right after.

            There was a car outside her apartment; Sark recognized it as Francie's. That was okay. He could handle Francie.

            He knocked on the door, waiting for the roommate to answer. But instead, it was the scraggly-looking reporter friend.

            "Can I help you?" 

            Sark instantly hated him. What was the boy doing in Sydney's apartment?

            "Yes," Sark said smoothly, not even attempting to hide his accent. "I wanted to leave these for Sydney Bristow. Is this her residence?"

            Not like he needed to even say that much, but his suspicions were confirmed by Will's reaction. There was that awkward, competitive tension that clouded Will's face. He reluctantly took the flower arrangement. 

            "Uh," he stuttered, "yeah, sure. Can I tell her your name?"

            _Wouldn't you like to know, you incompetent fool_, Sark thought. It was obvious Will was on edge and potentially jealous. _He likes her_. If he got in the way, Sark had several plans for the reporter. _A severe beating and yanking out teeth,_ Sark thought, among other torturous ideas.

            "It's on the card," Sark answered finally, though he knew it wasn't. "Thank you." With that, Sark turned and got back in his car.

            He headed back to New Zealand, quite pleased with his little plan. The whole idea was to give her friend a visual of who he was. He wasn't going to spell it out for her by writing his name on the card.  _But once Reporter-Wanna-Be mentions a British accent . . . _ Sydney would figure it out.

            Sark waited around nervously for the next week, hoping she would come. And if she did, that she would come alone, sans CIA or SD-6. But nothing happened. He grew stir-crazy, and finally decided to explore the country a bit.

            The beaches in New Zealand had the clearest water. He never expected himself to relax on a beach, but found it quite enjoyable. He had never had a vacation. As weird as it was to think of this as one, it was even stranger to think that this was his life now.

            It was exciting, but also frightening. Was he just going to be a "beach bum" for the rest of his life?

            He doubted that, but it did raise the issue of his future. Irina had gone back to espionage after killing Laura Bristow. _Would I return? Could I?_

            Sark laid comfortably on a towel in the sand. The sun was turning his stomach and chest pink, which would create an interesting coloration given the scars. The waves sloshed up on the shore, just a few feet from him. The wind blew sand in his hair, which was blond again. 

            Whether he could or would return to the industry really depended on one person.

            _Sydney_. He sighed. Sark got up, having had enough of fun in the sun for the day. The sun was starting its descent. Sark shook off the towel and put on a white open button up shirt. 

            His skin felt tight as he walked through his home. His legs, which previously were unacquainted with the sun, now felt hot and pink. He didn't know if that felt more foreign or if it was the shorts he wore.

            He left the lights off in the house, just enjoying the faint rays from the sun and the shadows they cast. He headed for the kitchen, where he downed some orange juice.

            Sark put his glass in the sink and walked through the hallways. His feet made slight suction-cup noises as they stuck a bit to the marble floors.

            He slowed his pace, coming to a stop in the foyer. 

            _Something_ . . . Sark quickly crossed to the entry table, reaching under it where he had a 9 mm gun strapped to the wood. Without hesitation, he loaded a bullet in the chamber and removed the safety.

            He listened as his eyes shiftily looked for the source of his anxiety. The curls at the nape of his neck seemed to tingle, and Sark whirled around to face behind him.

            He saw the figure and immediately raised his gun, ready to fire.

            "Who are you?" he demanded. The figure didn't move, but he could hear breathing.

            "Sark," a voice called out. Sark froze. He knew that voice.

            "Sydney?" 

            He didn't lower the gun until she came forward enough for him to see her.

            "You were stupid to leave a trail. I have a backup team outside, but I've convinced them to give me two minutes to bring you out," she said.

            Sark felt a pang in his chest. _Not again_.

            "You let me go before, and suddenly you've betrayed me again, Sydney?" he said, huffing his disbelief. "I'll never understand you." She moved forward a few more steps, raising something as she did.

            _A gun_.

            "Why did you lead me here?" she demanded loudly. Sark laughed at her.

            "Why? I'm starting to wonder myself. I thought I wanted to see who the real you is, and give the same chance with me," he said. She didn't even react to his words. She was . . . blank. _She really did set me up again_. Sark cursed his foolishness in wanting to believe. He cursed his heart.

            "I should have turned you over last time," Sydney began. "I don't know why I let you go."

            That did it.

            "Why you let me go? I'll tell you why, Sydney," Sark said, his heart racing with emotional fury. "You care for me. Sydney, since I've met you, we've both tried killing each other. I've tried stealing you over to my side by reason. I even threw my heart into the mix." He swallowed, repressing the feeling that his heart was coming up his throat. "But I guess I've been a clumsy thief.

            "At first it was for your mother that I did all this. But later, and even now . . . it was for me." He paused, examining the floor as he collected himself. When he looked back up, she still hadn't moved. Sark threw his gun to the floor, and watched it as it slid over to her. "You know the truth, about SD-6, your mother, and about me. Evidently I can't change you, but you should know that you've changed me, Sydney. I won't fight you anymore," he said, shaking his head for emphasis. "Go ahead and call your precious CIA."

            She stalked toward him like he was a wild animal on the loose. Her gun was still aimed at his chest showing through the open shirt. When she was two feet away, she dropped her weapon, and closed in on him.

            Her hands gingerly held his face as she kissed him. Her lips were so soft, and the passion between them . . . it was like never before. Sark's chest was on fire, all the way to his lips.

            "You have changed me," she said after she came up for air. "But you know I can't stay." Sark couldn't say anything, so he only nodded.

            "The CIA," he said, taking a glance out the windows. Sydney shook her head.

            "They're not here."

            Sark looked back at her, staring hard into her brown eyes.

            "You were bluffing," he realized aloud. Sydney smiled. It was the sweetest, most innocent smile. And it showed him that he had been right the first time: she was innocent, though scarred like he was. She still was spontaneous, but also very passionate about everything in her life.

            _Including me?_

            "You have to go?" Sark heard himself whisper. Sydney nodded.

            "But I'll be back. Some time soon." She started to back away.

            Sark grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. He held her close and kissed her so hard his teeth made impressions in his lips. But she kissed him back, and Sark knew his future was forever changed.

            When she pulled away again, Sark let her go. She walked tentatively to the door, glancing over her shoulder with every two steps. Sark admired her, not just her body or appearance, but _her_.

            "Sydney!" She turned back to him and Sark considered the words he was about to say.

            "I know," she said, smiling. "Me too." With that she turned again, but stopped herself. "Oh." She pulled something from her pocket. "You may need this later."

            She tossed it in the air, and Sark barely caught it in the darkening hour. He grinned as he realized what it was. 

            It was a bottle of aloe gel.

            He opened his mouth to say something back to her, but when he looked up, she was already gone. Sark shut his open mouth, and smiled sadly at the empty doorway.

            _But I'll be back—sometime soon._ Sark held onto that promise as he walked up to his room, tossing the aloe bottle in the air.

O Final (the end—sort of)

A/N: This was the original ending of this story until some readers convinced me to write more. So read on if you want a continuation.


	24. Epilogue Part 1

The Clumsy Thief

The End of the Beginning

Part One

            Five months went by, and she still hadn't made good on her word. Sark could only decorate and furnish his estate for so long, and he easily finished that two months ago. He now tortured himself with the idea that she hadn't been serious.

            Feelings of betrayal resurfaced, and Sark was running out of reasons to not doubt Sydney. He didn't expect her to be back within weeks, but five months? Sark had checked up on her last month via his LA asset, and everything was just dandy there. 

            _Maybe I'm being impatient_, Sark thought, trying to calm himself down. 

            He tossed a gun aside, having just finished target practice. Decorating had domesticized him enough to be scared, so he compensated by daily shooting time. After shooting came swimming time.

            He forwent the beach and just slipped outside to his pool. The weather was actually a bit chilly for a swim, but Sark didn't care. He threw his shirt on a lounger, and jumped in with the shorts he'd worn all day.

            The water was cool despite the heater he used this time of year. Sark caught his breath and then methodically started laps. As his muscles started to warm, he dove underneath the surface and just let himself sink to the bottom of the pool.

            He didn't know why, but he found this little ritual comforting. Sark put his hands behind his head and just laid on the bottom, looking up at the surface. The sun was already behind the nearby mountains, so the pool-side lights kicked in. The warm glow they cast on the water captured Sark's attention. 

            He just stared and relaxed for awhile, until his lungs started to pressure him. With that, Sark pushed off the bottom of the pool and sprung to the top.

            Two more laps, and he was done. _Done waiting_. Sark used his shirt to wipe off his face, and then proceeded to walk into his house, dripping water everywhere as he walked.

            He sat in front of his laptop, determined to find out what was going on. Sark wiped away droplets of water that threatened the machine.

            He logged onto a chat room, where he waited for his LA asset to respond. 

            The asset responded within a minute. _He must not have a life,_ Sark thought. But he didn't really care, since it ensured that he always was working on what Sark wanted him to.

            Sark began typing furiously. 

**Beachbum: New update needed.**

**Surfer47: Will work on it asap. Have something for you. Need to mail it. Location?**

            Sark froze. His asset had never asked for his location before, but yet his curiosity was piqued. 

**Beachbum: What is it?**

**Surfer47: Not now—possibility that security breached. Any location to route to you will do.**

            Sark almost scoffed at that. _Possible security breach and you want me to tell you where I am?_

**Surfer47: Info involves subject.**

            Sark froze again. _Sydney__._

**Beachbum: FTP site?**

**Surfer47: Compromised. Encode location to me at usual URL.**

            Sark logged off, thinking about this latest development. Who had compromised his asset's security? Something wasn't right, but Sark didn't know if withholding his location was a good idea.

            _It involves __Sydney__—do you need any more reason_? Sark began typing a post. He went to another web site, this one a discussion about growing roses. Sark posted a message, including an encoded reference to a post office in New Zealand. With that, he shut down his laptop and went upstairs to shower.

            He didn't like what was happening, but it could explain something about Sydney's delay in returning.

            He visited the post office everyday, exactly ten minutes after they put out the newly arrived mail. Each time he wore a different disguise and took alternate routes home.

            Nothing came for a week. Nor had his asset been available.

            Anxiety settled in with Sark. Something was definitely up, but until he had more information, he wouldn't know what.

            Tonight, Sark actually tried to sleep. He hadn't for the past week, but had little naps during the day to tie him over. Logic told him to get a decent night's rest before something came up.

            It took an hour, but he finally drifted off.

            It was the crickets that woke him up two hours later. They weren't chirping as usual. Sark sat upright in his bed, listening.

            Nothing—no bugs or anything sounded outside. 

            Something squeaked inside. _Shoes on the marble_, Sark pinpointed. He quickly reached under his pillow, and grabbed his gun.

            His feet padded quietly on the floor. Sark cocked the gun as noiselessly as possible. He peered around the corner to the hallway. It was dark, and he could hardly—

            _There_. He could make out a figure coming up the stairs. Two figures, actually. Sark ducked back into his room, looking for options.

            He didn't know how many were in his house, or outside. He could try to take them on, but frankly didn't like the odds. Sark grabbed a pair of pants, shoes and an extra clip of ammunition. 

            He heard them enter his room. Sark held his breath from above them. There was an attic-access point in his room, which was why he slept there and not any of the other rooms. _Exactly for scenarios like this one_. He didn't dare move until they had moved onto another room. He waited until he heard them move on before putting on his pants over his boxers.

            The shirt came next, and the shoes he tied together by the laces and slung over his shoulder. For now, he wanted to move around as quietly as possible.

            Sark lifted the wood panel in the ceiling. No one was in his room. Sark grabbed the edges of the attic and dropped through head first in almost a somersault. His hands gripped tightly as his weight pulled him toward the floor. Sark hung for a moment, surveying his surroundings for any noise.

            Satisfied for the moment, he let go and fell to the floor. His weight made a slight thud on the floor, and Sark froze.

            He heard the intruders pause their movements, and then resume. Someone was outside his room, getting closer to the noise he'd made.

            Sark crouched by his bed, his gun aimed at the doorway. As soon as he saw the figure, he fired.

            Two rounds, quickly hitting into the person's chest. Sark jumped to his feet and ran to the fallen man. He stooped over to yank out the man's earpiece, then continued full speed for the hallway. The others came at him from both sides of the hallway. Sark fired a few shots to his left as he dove over the railing.

            He had been bored enough of late that he often devised escape scenarios for situations like this. One day he had stared at his hallway and invented this particular scenario as a diversion from decorating.

            The chandelier wasn't too far from the railing, and Sark's dive was perfect. He landed roughly, but then again, he was swinging on an expensive oversized lamp. Sark held on with his left hand, strategically swinging his weight around to face the intruders. Their return fire shattered the glass on the chandelier, but Sark held on firmly. He emptied the rest of his clip, watching as four additional men went down. 

            Sark braced himself for what was next. He swung forward to a column in the entryway, and at the precise moment, let go of the chandelier. His body slammed into the column, but nicely prevented him from breaking his legs as he slid to the floor.

            He rolled away from the column, dodging bullets as they came at him. Sark crouched by a wall, wincing at the ricocheting bits of his home that hit him. He quickly replaced his clip and fired off three rounds at intruders on the main level. The hesitation in the return fire was all he needed. 

            Sark dove again for his study, slamming the doors behind him. He rolled to his feet and quickly looked for anyone in the study. 

            _No one_. He put the earpiece in that he'd swiped. 

            "—main level, in the study. Cover outside by windows." _Brilliant strategy,_ Sark mocked in his mind. _As if it wasn't obvious they would surround the room_. But that's what he planned on.

            He jumped to his bare feet, still aware of the shoes hanging over his shoulder. He went to a bookcase, throwing his weight against it to barricade the door. He only bothered with one bookcase. Sark only needed a minute.

            He threw his shoes on, glancing out the windows as he did. He could see shadows moving outside. Sark kept low to the ground as he moved for his desk. He quickly grabbed his laptop, as well as an emergency passport and funds in a hidden drawer. He threw it all in a backpack he normally used for his beach towel, and slung it over his shoulders. 

            In the back corner of the study, Sark moved a fake tree aside. Irina always had hidden doors around. That was one thing Sark customized when he moved into this estate. The doorway actually blended in nicely, but in daylight it was somewhat obvious. Sark didn't suspect these intruders, whoever they were, were smart enough to discover it.

            He slipped through the small doorway and quickly closed it off after him as the assault team broke into the study. Sark didn't stop moving. He came out in the kitchen, careful to make sure no one covered that room. 

            Sark smiled at his success, and quickly escaped out the service entrance of his estate. A van was outside, and Sark shot the guard posted outside it. 

            He couldn't trust his own cars, which he suspected were wired to explode or be tracked. That's what he would have done, anyway. Sark continued on foot, disappearing through the thick woods around his estate.


	25. Epilogue Part 2

Part Two

            Sark flew to Los Angeles. He had to find out what went wrong.

            His asset's apartment seemed quiet, which was what Sark feared. _Someone's gotten to him_. 

            Of course, just how much Sark didn't realize until his asset walked contentedly up to the building, whistling away while eating at a bag of Tostitos.

            Sark cursed, and inserted a fresh clip into his gun. He readied it and then quickly crossed the street from his vantage point.

            His asset was too busy whistling and spewing chip bits to hear Sark come up behind him. As he unlocked the front door, Sark pushed the asset into the man's apartment.

            The man yelled out, but Sark shoved his face into the wall.

            "Shut up, Haladki," Sark hissed. He pressed the muzzle of his gun to the asset's head. He heard a crunch as the bag of chips got sandwiched between the asset and the wall.

            "Sark!! I've been trying to contact you!" Haladki tried to say.

            Sark kneed him in the back. "Don't give me that. What's going on?" he demanded. 

            Haladki tried to keep up his innocence, but Sark cut into that with a sharp twist of the man's arm. "Who are you working for?"

            After Haladki caught his breath, he started to talk.

            "Okay, okay!" he said, whimpering. "The CIA." Sark twisted the arm more, until he heard a crunch from bone, and not chips.

            Haladki screamed.

            "That's your cover, Haladki," Sark reminded him. Haladki shook his head.

            "But they've been sniffing me out! Ever since the Alliance and Sydney thing, I've had to be careful!! I had to give them something!!"

            Sark froze. "What Sydney thing? What about the Alliance?"

            "You don't know?" Sark waited patiently for the snitch to continue. "Geez, where have you been?"

            Sark whirled Haladki around and promptly hit him across the jaw. He slung the man's body toward a couch. Haladki fell ungraciously, cradling his arm and whimpering.

            "You know exactly where I've been. You sent the CIA after me, remember?" He sneered with enough malice to make Haladki remember what Sark was capable of. "Now what's happened?"

            "Sloane disappeared a month ago. And then Sydney and the CIA took down the Alliance. When they did, CIA searched Sloane's files, and found one on Sydney." Haladki paused to wince and nurse his arm. Sark cocked his gun, and the man quickly continued. "Sloane had evidence that she went to see you a few months ago. CIA put her in prison for treason."

            It was coming together.

            "Why didn't they know where I was then?" Sark asked slowly.

            "The intel didn't point to a specific place, and she never said where you were. I had to give them something."

            "You saved your own hide," Sark thought aloud. Haladki shook his head.

            "No. The Man ordered me to give them your location." 

            Sark studied Haladki's face. He was pale, and nervous enough to be convincing. And what he said made sense, in some twisted way. All this time he'd thought Irina didn't know who his sources were, but it was obvious she'd been ahead of him again.

            "You should never have betrayed me," Sark whispered. With that, he fired a single shot in the apartment and left.

            Sark sipped at his glass of wine on the patio of some French restaurant, trying to think through all the new developments. A headache was already threatening him, probably because of the LA smog. Sark pushed the dull pain to the background.

            Irina had ordered Haladki to tell the CIA where he was. _She must still be miffed_. Sark shook his head to himself.

            Irina wasn't foolish enough to hold grudges just for the sheer satisfaction of it. Everything always served a purpose for whatever plan she was working on. _So what purpose was there in giving me up?_

            Sydney was in CIA custody. There was a drastic change in events. _Ungrateful twits, the lot of them_, Sark thought. 

            _Wait_. If the CIA knew Sydney went to see him, they probably wanted to know what else she'd done or knew.

            That was it. _Irina gave me up to get the CIA off Sydney's back_. If he was right, he had to admire that, even though it was Irina.

            Sark took another sip.

            _What about Sloane? _He'd disappeared, and the Alliance conveniently fell thereafter. _A little too convenient_. Sark figured that Sloane must either be helping the CIA to take down the Alliance, or he orchestrated it.

            Sloane definitely didn't have any halo about his head, so Sark leaned to the second option. _But why?_ What was in it for Sloane?

            Sark lifted his arm to signal the waiter, but stopped mid-air. A slim, confident woman walked toward him. He couldn't help but think of her as a tiger coming on its prey. Then again, she was a predator of sorts.

            "Hello, Irina," Sark greeted. He sat against the back of his chair, taking a long sip while watching her.

            She sat opposite him, her legs crossed and with a strong smirk on her face. She wore a black cocktail dress, and looked stunning. She knew it, too.

            "You look well," she started. Sark held up the bottle of wine he'd been drinking, and she nodded for him to pour her a glass. "I trust you've heard some news."

            Sark nodded and set his glass on the table. "Yes." 

            "You're wondering why I sent the CIA after you," she surmised. Her dainty but firm hands cradled her wine glass.

            "No, actually. I think you were protecting Sydney by giving me up," Sark said. He watched for her reaction. A smile spread over her face.

            "Yes," she admitted with an approving nod. "But I also wanted to make sure you were still in shape. I've heard you've been a bit of a beach bum lately."

            It was Sark's turn to smile, though he couldn't ignore the questions he had about her prior behavior.

            "Do you trust me still?"

            That was a loaded question, but Sark attempted an answer.

            "I trust that you love your daughter, and that you want to protect her. Even if it means killing me or setting back any other of your goals."

            Irina's dark eyes probed him for what he was thinking. "You feel betrayed, with that raid you and Sydney went on, and with the CIA coming after you."

            Sark studied his former boss, wondering what really was going on. She came for a reason, as she always did. And she wasn't here to apologize.

            "I suspect you actually felt betrayed, by both me and by Sydney," Sark said carefully. "You may even blame me for Sydney's defection back to the CIA." That smile diminished and Sark knew he was right to some degree. But he also knew Irina was withholding something. 

            "Sydney was more responsible for your defection to morality than the other way around," Irina said. Sark shrugged.

            "Either way." They sat in momentary silence, eyeing each other. In that silence, Sark gave up any grudges. "Let's move on. What do you know about Sloane?"

            In his mind, he knew that was the piece he was missing, and he appreciated that Irina picked up where his thoughts left off.

            "Sloane set up the Alliance to fall, so he could work on the Rambaldi prophecy. He believes he's been chosen," Irina began, "to fulfill Rambaldi's work."

            Sark didn't react visibly, but inside he was waiting for a punch line.

            "Rambaldi." It was all he could say, but it was enough to prompt Irina.

            "You know the prophecy involves Sydney. The CIA believed it was she who would fulfill his works. But I believe she will stop that."

            "Stop Sloane?" Sark asked. Irina nodded.

            "There's a new document that I found. It says a man will find his destiny and carry it out to the full cost of the world, which will burn to its destruction." Irina took a long sip of her wine.

            Sark studied his wine, swirling it around in the glass as he thought.

            "If I understand correctly," he started tentatively, "Sloane is about to destroy the world, and you believe Sydney can stop him." He stared hard at Irina. "What makes you think Sydney can stop him?"

            "One of the translations of the document that first implicated Sydney—it says as much," Irina said. She looked at him expectantly, and Sark started to put the pieces together.

            "So we take this info to the CIA, get Sydney released in order to 'save the world' and stop Sloane," Sark finished. Irina smiled like a proud parent.

            "Pretty much," she said. "Except it's just you that goes to the CIA."

            Sark tried not to glare at her too much.

            The next morning Sark stalked confidently through the entrance of the CIA building. No one recognized him here, but he suspected that would change when he announced his presence.

            "May I help you, sir?" a woman asked. Sark smiled pleasantly at her.

            "Yes, I'd like to speak with your director. Tell him he has a walk-in."

            The woman eyed him cautiously. "Just one moment," she said. "Your name please?"

            Sark smiled.

            He was escorted back to the director's office, after a security check and pat-down. The guards hesitated over the Rambaldi document.

            "That's for the director," Sark had said.

            By the time he actually stood in front of the director and Assistant Director Kendall, a whole crowd had gathered. Agent Twit and his sidekick Weiss were there, along with Daddy Bristow and some others he'd never seen.

            "My, my," Sark began. "Quite the circus here." The sound of a gun being cocked didn't escape Sark's notice, but he acted indifferent.

            "You're the only clown here, Sark," Vaughn said.

            _Idiot,_ Sark thought. "What a pathetic comeback, Agent Vaughn."

            "Mr. Sark," Jack Bristow cut in. "I'm assuming you didn't come back because of any attachment to your accommodations." 

            Sark smiled. "You're correct." He held out a hand to the Rambaldi document. "I'm here to help you and Miss Bristow stop Sloane."

            "Sydney is in custody, where you'll end up very soon," Kendall cut in. Sark shook his head at the man.

            "Not likely. Read the manuscript I've brought here. You'll see it is imperative that you release Sydney. As for me, you'll need my help."

            "Help for what?" Vaughn said with an immature huff. Sark stared hard at the tall, wrinkled man.

            "Saving the world."


	26. Epilogue Part 3

Part Three

            The analysis and interpretations took awhile longer than Sark expected, even for the CIA, but eventually the agency came around to his way of thinking. The guards around him didn't assault him and the NSC was nowhere to be found as Sark waited in one of the interrogation rooms.

            Sark even fell asleep for awhile, using his charcoal suit coat as a pillow. He woke up to Jack Bristow and a cup of coffee, which was scary but he let it go.

            "Thank you," he said groggily, taking the Styrofoam cup. 

            Jack studied him. "Perhaps I should thank you. Sydney has been released. She's coming now."

            Sark sensed the tension emanating from the man. "But?" he pressed.

            "But I should blame you for her plight in the first place."

            "Because she came to see me?" Sark said. "Please, Mr. Bristow, I hardly seduced your daughter to the dark side."

            "Maybe, maybe not," Jack said. "But you will not win her over. I expect her to be able to be herself when all this is over."

            Sark pursed his lips. He was somewhat surprised at Jack's casual discussion of his daughter's personal life. "Do you not approve of me, Mr. Bristow? I can't be nearly as bad as Agent Wrinkles."

            Jack actually looked confused, a look Sark stored away for his amusement. "You're either referring to Agent Vaughn or Assistant Director Kendall, but either way, you needn't worry. Neither has won my approval. But don't think that gives you the right to pursue my daughter."

            His eyes bore into Sark, and Sark couldn't help but feel exposed. _This is what I missed as a teen, dating girls with overprotective fathers_. 

            The staring contest ended as the door opened. _Speak of the devil_. It was Agent Vaughn.

            "They're ready in the briefing room."

            Sydney sat calmly, looking quite refreshed despite the fact she'd just come from a cell. She'd had time to change even, and sported her normal dark business suit. Her eyes widened when she saw Sark, but then she quickly went passive again. Sark's heart swelled.

            A number of agents and officials sat around the briefing room, and Sark took a seat where Jack indicated.

            "Based on the newest Rambaldi document we have, courtesy of Mr. Sark," Kendall began, "a major Rambaldi prophecy is about to be fulfilled. Agent Sydney Bristow has been restored to active duty, and is mentioned in the prophecy as one who can stop it."

            Sydney's jaw was noticeably open, and Sark almost smiled at her. He would have, and maybe more, if her dad wasn't sitting next to him.

            "Arvin Sloane. He disappeared a month ago, but supposedly will be responsible for carrying out this prophecy," Kendall said. There was quite a bit of evident disdain in his tone, and Sark glared at him.

            "Something wrong, Mr. Sark?" Kendall challenged, noticing the disapproval. Sark nodded.

            "If I may take over, Assistant Director," he said, accent purring with enough civility to be mocking. "This prophecy is to be believed. Rambaldi says that someone will find his destiny and carry it out at full cost of the world, which," he paused, getting everyone's attention, "will burn to its destruction."

            All eyes were on him. "If nothing else, I doubt this agency wants to stand by when such a risk threatens us all," he finished.

            "So what's next?" Agent Weiss said, speaking up while most were sulking like Vaughn.

            Sark knew the hardliners wouldn't like his plan, but he didn't care much, so long as things went his way.

            "Sydney and I will use my contacts to track down Arvin Sloane. We will call you in as needed—"

            "There are just so many things wrong with that scenario, Mr. Sark," Kendall began. Sark quickly cut him off.

            "We will, of course, keep you informed," he said. He knew that wouldn't appease the assistant director, but it was a start.

            "Why your contacts? Does that include Irina Derevko?" Kendall was on a tirade. "How do we know you aren't going to go help Sloane? He knew about you somehow; for all we know you could be working for him. You _are_ a terrorist."

            Sark smirked at the man with an additional look that said "are you finished yet?" When the man quieted down, Sark continued.

            "We'll use my contacts because I don't trust you. Ms. Derevko is privy to more information than you, so she's a possible source, but I hardly trust her either. And I don't intend to help Sloane, especially since I do not know the man. If he knows something about me, I'll find out right before I kill him."

            His cool air and yet casual manner in such a serious discussion silenced everyone. He couldn't help but feel pride. Sydney even gave him a half-smile.

            Jack cleared his throat. "The concern lies in trusting you, Mr. Sark. You said you'd call us as needed. To ensure we are kept in the loop, we'll send two agents with you."

            "That'd be Sydney and who?" Sark quickly replied.

            "I'll go," Agent Vaughn volunteered. Sark rolled his eyes. 

            "I'd prefer Agent Weiss," Sark said.

            Jack quickly responded. "I bet you would."

            "He's more objective," Sark said, cocking his head to one side.

            Sark could have sworn he saw Vaughn's eyebrows spike up. Before he could launch a verbal assault, Jack Bristow stepped in again.

            "Two additional agents will go then, to make sure objectivity and interests of national security are maintained. I suggest Agents Vaughn _and_ Weiss." Jack dared Sark to challenge him.

            Sark was quite prepared for this possibility, and being that Agent Twit didn't have a brain and Agent Weiss was manageable, he nodded his consent.

            "I'll allow it on one condition," he said. "None of my sources, including Irina Derevko, will be pursued by the CIA." He saw Kendall's mouth open for the instant objection, but Jack was quicker.

            "Agreed." 

            Sark knew Jack would see the sense in that, and smiled openly.

            "We should leave right away."

            Everyone was tense until they boarded the plane. Well, Sark maintained his cool air no matter what. Sydney loosened up on the plane, and even Weiss did. Agent Vaughn, however, was the determined sour puss of the journey.

            "So where are we headed?" he asked Sark with a glare. Sark ignored it.

            "We're going to meet with Derevko in Bangkok. She's gathering intel already. And we'll see from there."

            Sark went to the kitchenette and helped himself to a drink. He felt Vaughn's eyes follow him and couldn't help but think he'd rather it were Sydney's eyes.

            "I thought you didn't trust Derevko," Vaughn challenged. Sark sipped from his glass and surveyed the three agents in front of him.

            "Blindly trusting Irina is suicidal. She's betrayed us all on some level. But she wants what we do this time, and I know how to read her."

            Vaughn snorted at that. Sydney rolled her eyes, and went to Sark. He watched her come to him, every step and every move.  How he missed her.

            They stared at each other for a moment.

            "You look amazing," he said softly. She smiled.

            "I missed you," Sydney said. "I planned on coming back after the Alliance take-down, but ran into some trouble." Sark smiled at that.

            "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I just barely found out," he said. "I was waiting for you."

            Sydney gave him a teasing smile. "Missed me bad, didn't you?" Sark grinned.

            "I'm glad you're all right."

            "Sydney." It was Agent Vaughn. He had the disapproving, protective look on his face as he stood and held out an arm to her.

            _Oh please,_ Sark thought,_ is he really going to be that anal?_

            Sydney looked at Vaughn but didn't move. Vaughn sighed.

            "Are you really trusting this assassin?!" 

            Sydney stood up straight and glared at him. "Should I really trust the CIA? Who got me out of prison? It wasn't you, Vaughn." That fierce look in her eyes and her overall manner reminded Sark of a cat when its hair stands up on ends in anticipation of a fight. He smiled, proud of her.

            "It wasn't me who got you in prison in the first place," Vaughn spat back. Weiss stood up, and laid a calming hand on his partner's shoulder.

            "Okay, before this gets out of hand, you all should really just chill," Weiss said, glancing over each one. "Except for Sark. He's too chilly as it is."

            Sark gave him a smirk.

            "Perhaps we should all get some rest," Sark said. "Or we could have Agent Weiss monitor a round of The Bachelorette."

            Those eyebrows on Vaughn went spiky again. Sark wished he had a camera handy.

            "Both of you, back off on the egos," Sydney said, stepping between them with her hands on her hips. Sark was about to say something about that, but she shot him a warning look that made him shut his mouth.

            Sark downed the rest of his drink after a mock cheers toward Vaughn. With that, he settled into a seat and tried his best indifferent and relaxed look.


	27. Epilogue Part 4

Part Four

            "I'm not sure if I want to see her," Sydney said aloud later as they headed into the heart of Bangkok. The four of them sat in the back of a limo for hire.

            Sark nodded. "I think it'd be best if only Agent Weiss and I met with Irina." Vaughn started to object, predictably, but Sark pressed on. "I'm not thrilled about leaving you with Sydney, Agent Vaughn, but for our intelligence purposes, the meeting will be more effective without emotional issues."

            Sydney scowled at him for that.

            "No offense," Sark quickly added with a charming smile. He noticed Weiss sat up straighter at the idea of being included in the meeting.

            "Where are we meeting her?" Weiss asked.

            "At our hotel. She'll contact me and let us know which room."

            They checked into an executive suite. Sark thought it was the best alternative to make sure no one was double crossing each other. That, and there was no way he was letting Sydney share a room with Vaughn (and he doubted Vaughn would let her share a room with Sark).

            Vaughn finally gave him a moment's peace by taking a shower. Sark jumped on the opportunity.

            He sat next to Sydney, who was relaxing on a couch.

            "You seem . . . different," Sark said. Sydney cocked her head to the side.

            "How?"

            Sark drew in a deep breath. "A bit distant. Beautiful as ever though," he added with a grin. She smiled timidly back.

            "I guess maybe it's being put in jail by my own government."

            "Tough being betrayed by those you trust and work for?"

            She grinned at that. "You know what that's like." She sighed. "I guess I'm just . . . hardened by it."

            "I'd be happy to hear out anything you want to say," Sark said. "I want to be there for you. Always."

            She had been studying her shoes, but suddenly turned to face him. Her expression—it was amazement, and Sark didn't know why.

            "There you are," Sydney whispered. "I'm not the only one who seems hardened since we last saw each other. Just now you seemed like you were in New Zealand. But today, yesterday—you were like you were when we first met."

            He didn't know what to say to that. He hadn't thought about it, but she _was_ right. He thought about Haladki, and that was evidence proving Sydney's point.

            "Blame it on the industry," he said lightly at first. He paused. "In reality, when I heard what happened to you, . . . it infuriated me." Sydney watched him closely. Sark ran a hand through his blond hair. "The CIA raided my house. I just reacted to survive. Then I had to know what went wrong. I found out that one of my sources lied to me, and that just infuriated me even more." He hesitated how much to tell her. "He told me what happened to you. I guess I've been doing what's necessary to ensure our survival."

            She didn't answer, but instead leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. Sark stared at her, willing her to see how much she meant to him. He leaned back toward her, moving for her lips.

            "Uh, I _am_ here, you know," came Agent Weiss' voice. Sark stopped mid-air and shot him a look that screamed 'die now.'

            "Agent Weiss, you just ruined a perfectly romantic moment." His voice was civil but with enough annoyance to make Weiss hold up his hands in surrender.

            Sark's cell phone rang, making all of them jump slightly. 

            "Hello," he said, his purring accent in full force.

            "Room 647." It was Irina, and she hung up almost immediately.

            Sark sighed, and got to his feet. "Agent Weiss, it's time to go."

            No one answered room 647 when Sark knocked. As weird as that was, Sark didn't feel uptight by it. Weiss covered him as Sark picked the lock, and both entered the room.

            It was lit only by one lamp, next to which was a reading table. On that table was a thick manilla envelope. Sark picked it up.

            "There's a letter too," Weiss said. Sure enough, under the envelope was a letter, addressed to Sark. He held out his hand for it.

            "It would seem that Irina Derevko doesn't trust the CIA," Sark said, heading for the door. He opened it, only to find Vaughn standing there, obviously poised to intrude on the meeting.

            "I can't imagine why," Weiss said, staring at his friend.

            The four spies started pouring over the envelope's contents. Sark started with the letter Irina left.

_Sark__–___

_            Obviously, I didn't feel comfortable staying for a personal meeting, but I've gathered everything I could on Sloane. There are some good leads in the envelope and I'll keep pursuing things from my end._

_            I realize you don't fully trust me, and I don't expect you to. But please watch out for __Sydney__. I know you care for her, and have her welfare at heart. Keep her safe, especially from Sloane. We don't yet know what will happen with the Rambaldi prophecy._

_            I'll be in touch._

            "Look at this," Sydney said suddenly. She pointed to a surveillance photo. "This was taken in Cairo four days ago."

            Sark looked over her shoulder. It was Sloane. Sark thought about what Irina had written. "Have we heard from your CIA about Rambaldi?"

            "What do you mean?" Weiss asked.

            "Sloane is trying to figure out this Rambaldi destiny of his. The sooner we know what it is, exactly, the sooner we'll be able to find and stop Sloane," Sark answered.

            "I'll contact Kendall," Vaughn said. 

            "Sark, what about this?" Weiss said, picking up a sheet of paper. Sark studied it. On the paper were codes that Irina's team had deciphered.

            "Latitude and longitude?" Sark asked aloud. "Agent Vaughn, ask your CIA to figure out where this location is."

            Vaughn glared at him, probably because of the order, but complied. Sark overheard him ask for someone named Marshall.

            "What do the codes lead to?" Sydney asked. Sark read on.

            "Some sort of transportation device."

            "Transportation?" Weiss repeated.

            Sark shrugged.

            "Let's follow the trail and see if we can find out more," Sark said. "But to be efficient, I think it best if we split up."

            Vaughn narrowed his eyes. "How?" Sydney jumped in, anticipating the debate.

            "Sark and I will try to track down Sloane. I doubt he's still in Egypt. You and Weiss go to Cairo and see what it is Sloane got."

            "We'll keep in contact and meet up when we have a firm lead," Sark finished for her.

            Vaughn was still glaring, but seemed to be agreeing. "We should leave before the trail in Cairo goes cold."

            _Is Agent Wrinkles actually cooperating?_ Sark could hardly hide his shock.

            Weiss started to raise a timid hand. 

            "Yes, Agent Weiss?" Sark called on him like a teacher over a third-grader.

            "Well," Weiss began, coughing uncomfortably, "this is a _really_ nice hotel. And we're in the executive suite."

            "Have you never been in a nice hotel before?" Sark taunted.

            "The CIA works on a budget," Weiss replied. "I'm surprised we were able to stay here." Sark smirked.

            "I paid for it. But I'll be sure to pick out an even nicer suite in the future, for your benefit," he said. Weiss's mouth spread in a wide grin.

            "All right. Let's get going!"

            As they left, Vaughn shot Sark a warning glare, and Sydney a concerned, half-hearted smile.

            Sark almost groaned when he saw her smile back at the twit, but let it go. 

            There was almost an awkward moment when they were finally alone. Sydney tucked her hair behind her right ear.

            "You seem nervous," Sark said, hoping she wouldn't see his own nervousness. Sydney moved across the room to get a drink, but Sark knew she was really getting space.

            "I'm not sure what I want."

            Sark felt his heart skip three beats. "You mean me or the CIA." He started to pace. She didn't answer for awhile.

            "Let's not focus on us right now," she said. "I'm going to read over the rest of what's in here."

            Sark stared at the floor until he could mask himself. "I'll call for some room service." His jaw was set and his eyes glassy.

            They ate and studied in silence.

            She fell asleep after midnight, but Sark couldn't sleep.

            _After everything we've been through . . ._ She wasn't sure if she wanted to be with him. Sark sat in a chair, watching her as she slept on the bed. 

            _Why on earth is she doubting me now?_ He thought for sure that the CIA's wrong move would have sent her running to him. Instead, Sark figured she was having some attack of conscience.

            But it wasn't a matter of conscience. Or was it?

            Sark shook his head. _What about leaving her life?_ That made something dawn on him. _Of course_. Being with him meant Sydney had to leave everyone she knew behind. The CIA was one thing. But her father, her friends, even Agent Vaughn—leaving them was something else.

            Could she leave all that for him? Obviously she doubted that. So the question Sark faced was could he let her go for them.

            He thought about another option as they got ready for the next day. He could be with her by leaving his life. But he would have to convince the CIA that he wasn't a threat. That didn't appeal to him; he'd worked hard to seem intimidating, threatening, and just to be Sark. Plus, he'd probably have to work with a bunch of pansies like Vaughn.

            No way.

            He sighed aloud, drawing a glance from a stern-faced Sydney.

            "What's wrong?" she asked. Sark tried his best to look innocent. 

            "What? Nothing."

            _Yeah right._


	28. Epilogue Part 5

Part Five

            Vaughn and Weiss called as Sark did a dummy check of the suite.

            "The coordinates lead to tombs," Vaughn said over the speaker phone.

            "Not King Tut, I hope," Sark said.

            "No, just random tombs, no one important. But there's evidence of an excavation. We've asked around, and Sloane was here. He left two days ago."

            _Two days._ He could be anywhere. Sydney shot Sark a look that said as much. It was the only time she'd really looked at him this morning. That hurt.

            "What did Sloane dig up?" she asked. Sark watched the intensity in her eyes, and couldn't help but think she was purposely trying to hide any thought of him.

            _Focus!_

            Weiss' voice came over the phone. "We found someone who worked to dig it up. It was a rocket of sorts."

            "A rocket?" Sark repeated.

            "Yeah, that's what this guy described it as. We're getting more details."

            "Transportation...it's a delivery system then," Sark deduced aloud.

            "Seems like it," came Weiss' reply.

            "Call us as soon as you have anything else," Sydney said. She ended the call and turned to face Sark.

            The wheels in his head were turning, and Sydney waited to hear what he was thinking.

            "The prophecy said the world would burn to its destruction," Sark began. "But this rocket was meant to be a means of transportation for whatever weapon Rambaldi created."

            Sydney began to pace. "So what is the weapon?" Sark got momentarily distracted watching her move, but quickly refocused before she noticed.

            "Rambaldi, based on what Irina told me, was obsessed about immortality," he said, drifting off as he thought some more. "Maybe that included being the only one left standing."

            "That mission my mother sent me on, when I went back to the CIA," Sydney began. "I got some DNA research. And one of the things Marshall said it could be used for was to specifically target someone."

            "Biological weapons," Sark filled in. "How is that 'burning' though?"

            Sydney looked stumped. "Maybe burning like a fever. It'd be so classic Rambaldi to call it burning and expect people to look for fire or explosions instead."

            "True," Sark said, nodding. "Any disease results in a fever of sorts, and with something the magnitude of Rambaldi, it'd probably be at least as devastating as Ebola." Sark hid a shudder. If there was one thing that gave him the willies, it was the idea of rotting from the inside out by some virus.

            Sydney's cell phone rang, breaking his paranoid revelry. 

            "Yes," she answered. Sark watched her, his eyes analyzing her reaction for any info.

            "We'll head out right now. I'll inform Vaughn and Weiss." She hung up and glanced at Sark as she began gathering her things. "One of our satellites picked up 'Sloane' and 'Rambaldi.'"

            "Your Eschelon system," Sark said knowingly. Sydney glared at him. "What? You think that just because that's classified no one else knows about it?"

            She sighed.

            "The call came from Africa."                             

            _Crap_. He was headed to the jungle, in the middle of Ebola-central.

            "You all right, Sark?" Sydney asked. "You look pale." Sark yanked his facade in place.

            "Of course I look pale. I'm Irish." With that, he grabbed his bag and left the suite.

            Nairobi. It was hot, humid, and buggy. Sark frowned at the environment as soon as he stepped off the plane. His khaki pants were sticking to his legs already. He was only pleased that he had something light enough in color to make this stop bearable.

            He adjusted his shirt, a white polo that stuck to his back. Sark glanced at Sydney. She looked amazing as always, wearing a flattering pair of drab cargoes and a white t-shirt_. How does she make bland military apparel look sexy?_ Sark shook his head, amazed.

            "I assume you know where Sloane is in this inferno," Sark said with enough apparent disgust. Sydney nodded, her dark sunglasses bouncing.

            "We traced the call to a remote hospital," she said. 

            "As if Nairobi isn't remote enough," Sark mumbled. He climbed into the open jeep that waited on the airstrip. "Let's get going then."

            The drive was long, filled with uncomfortable silences and sly glances. The sun was already setting, and Sark realized how unprepared they were.

            "You realize we don't have any tactical gear appropriate for a night raid," Sark said, breaking the long silence.

            Sydney, behind the wheel, kept her eyes on the dirt road. "I doubt Sloane is still there. He's always two steps ahead."

            "Agent Bristow, where's your faith?" Sark said, trying to draw a smile from her. It didn't work.

            Sark sighed into the dusk as trees and whatever else out there whipped by him. 

            The target hospital was dark except for one end.

            "Should we go towards the light?" Sark whispered from the distance they parked away. Sydney glanced at him with a slight smile.

_            About time_, Sark thought.

            "What approach should we take?" Sydney whispered. She readied her gun as she did. Sark followed suit.

            "Long way around, approaching from the south side."

            They moved together, with the stealth of animals Sark feared were stalking him. Dried twigs and dirt crunched under their shoes. Sark looked ahead. 

            The hospital, which looked identical to the third-world elementary schools, was quiet. _Not even moaning patients_. Sark tried to shake that line of thought from his head before it got out of hand.

            It was a little too quiet. It made Sark tense, and he knew something was up.

            "Sydney," he whispered, slowing his pace. She stopped ahead of him, though he couldn't see any look on her face. The darkness was starting to consume everything. Only the light was guiding them, and that's what concerned Sark. "I think we're walking into a trap."

            "You think?" Her voice screamed defiance. Sark sighed at her stubbornness.

            "Stop being difficult and consider our situation," he muttered. "Do you not feel odd about this?"

            "Sloane may be inside. And even if he's not here, we at least have to see what he was doing here," she said, moving forward. Sark sighed again.

            _Women._ They rounded around the corner of the hospital, not far from the lit area. Sydney went first, with Sark covering her. He didn't much like that, but she insisted.

            His ears filled with the silence. It came rushing at him, and it proved to him something was very wrong. Sark forced himself to calm down and just listen for any edge over the situation.

            Sydney was headed to a door in the lit area. Sark hissed at her, getting her attention. When she looked back at him, Sark motioned for another entrance—one not lit up like a "Spies Welcome" sign.

            He felt some relief when she followed his suggestion. Before he slipped through the door, which was unlocked, Sark double-checked behind him.

            Nothing. He caught the door before it slammed shut. Sark swept through the room, which actually was a dirty hallway. He whirled around to check behind them again.

            Through the grimy windows, Sark saw figures scurrying outside. He cursed in his mind. _It's a trap_. Sark quietly leapt after Sydney, who was almost to the lit room. He grabbed her, covering his hand over her mouth.

            "We've been made, Sydney," he whispered roughly. "There are men outside, circling the building." He released her, not missing the glare she shot him.

            "What's the plan?" 

            Sark kept low to the ground and started searching for anything that could provide a distraction for their escape. "Find something flammable," he whispered. He started to move on, but she grabbed his arm.

            The heat in her eyes made Sark think now was not a time for romance, but soon he realized it was her defiant streak rearing its head. 

            "We're not destroying any leads here, Sark," she said in a low voice. Sark was about to scream.

            "Sydney, we are being _hunted_! We have to gain the upper hand somehow," he said more frantically than he cared to admit.

            Their debate was interrupted by someone bursting through the double doors at the front of the building. Sark and Sydney fell back in opposite directions, ducking under a counter and in a side room. 

            Sark could hear the various footsteps filing through the building. He guessed about 5 or 6 men, but that count was thrown off as two men came through the entrance he and Sydney had used.

            He pointed his gun towards this new, closer threat. He glanced at Sydney. She was poised just inside the doorframe of an adjacent room. She looked dangerous, wild—beautiful.

            _Focus!_ Sark looked to Sydney for any sort of plan, but she kept her eyes on the men coming toward them.

            Sark brought his gun up, his eyes tracking the threats. He ducked under the counter again and listened as their footsteps approached. He counted them, pinpointing their proximity. 

            Suddenly Sark fell out onto the hallway floor, out from behind the counter. He fired, once, twice, four times, bringing down the men in front of him. He heard Sydney fire behind him, but not in the same direction. He realized too late that someone was behind him. Even so, he flipped onto his back, aiming at the unseen threat. He was just in time to see the butt of an assault rifle come at his head.

            He came to and quickly deduced that he was strapped down to a steel operating table. He winced at the throbbing in his head, and noticed the caked feeling of dried blood on his face. He tried to look around, and saw Sydney handcuffed to a chair.

            "It looks like our subject is awake," came a measured voice. Sark squinted as a light was shone directly over him. He struggled to see the speaker.

            It was a man, white, freakishly tall (or maybe that was just Sark's vantage point), and he had gray eyes. He wore fatigues and a lab coat, and the way he was hovering was starting to make Sark nervous. Sark steeled himself for whatever was ahead.

            "Do you know what this is?" the man asked, waving a syringe menacingly at Sark.

            "Morphine?" Sark quipped hopefully. 

            "This is a sample of what Mr. Sloane came for," the man said. "He said if you showed up, I could test it on you." He smiled darkly, watching for any effect. "You should feel honored."

            "I prefer a bottle of Chateau Petruse over honor," Sark said with a smirk.

            "Leave him alone," Sydney said. Sark noticed that fire in her eyes, and hoped there was some semblance of a plan in her mind. Given that his arms and legs were strapped down by thick leather, Sark didn't see himself participating in the plan.

            The man turned to Sydney.

            "Interestingly enough," he began, "Mr. Sloane doesn't want you harmed. He seems to have a soft spot for you, Ms. Bristow."

            Sark couldn't help but clench his fists.

            "But," the man continued, "that soft spot doesn't extend to you, Mr. Sark." He came closer to Sark, taking off the cap to the syringe.

            "I wouldn't expect so. I've never met the man," Sark said. "Nor have I met you, Mr. . . ."

            The man smiled at Sark's attempt for a delay. "Given your circumstances, you can call me God." He leaned over Sark, and Sark noticed the man's crooked teeth. _Odd,_ he thought_, considering you're about to be infected with that virus_.

            "Wait!" Sark released a breath, glad that Sydney had decided to try something. The man stopped, standing straight and raising an eyebrow at Sydney.

            "Yes?"

            "What was Sloane after?" Sark knew Sydney's question wouldn't get anywhere. "Why does he want to hurt Sark?"

            Sark watched to see if these last minute questions had any effect on the doctor-wannabe in front of him. Sark noticed no one else was in the room, but he caught a silhouette of a guard outside the operating room. 

            The man placed the cap back on the syringe, and Sark started breathing again.

            "We have all the time in the world, so since you want to talk, let's talk," the man said. Sark didn't like the idea of what this man intended to do with all that time, but he forced himself to think of a way out of this situation.

            Sark's eyes fell on Sydney's chair. It was a cheap aluminum chair, and the handcuffs would be easy to free if she managed to break the chair.

            Of course, breaking the chair and incapacitating Psycho here could be difficult. Sark looked around for anything within his limited movement that could help.

            Sydney started to say something, but the man held up a hushing hand. "Please. Let's at least start the process with Mr. Sark. That way, we can see how he reacts as we talk."

            The man turned to Sark, uncapping the syringe again. "This virus has the efficacy of Ebola in less than 48 hours. Symptoms normally show up within five hours of exposure." He hovered over Sark, and Sark couldn't take his eyes off the needle as it approached his skin.

            He struggled against the leather bonds, but nothing gave. His waist was unrestrained, and Sark found that he was arching his back, twisting his torso in anyway he could. Anything to get away from what was in that syringe.

            _This is it_. The needle was inches above the crook of his arm. Sark couldn't help but think that he knew Nairobi was a bad idea.

            A huge crash made Psycho hesitate. Sark tore his eyes from the needle to see Sydney freeing herself from the broken chair. She whipped up a part of the chair and chucked it at the man.

            He ducked, and the metal hit Sark in the chest. He winced, but stayed focused on Sydney. She grabbed another chair part as the man lunged for her. The chair slammed into the man, and Sark could hear crunching bones where the metal connected with his skull.

            The guard outside burst in, but Sydney was already pumped. She axed him to the ground with a hard kick. No one else came running in, and Sydney quickly came to Sark's side.

            "That's exactly what I would have done," Sark said, his voice a bit shaky. Sydney gave him a smirk, which Sark couldn't help but cherish.

            "Yeah right," she said as she freed him. Sark tried his best wounded look.

            "Really! Well, except for hitting me with that chair," he said, flashing her a disarming smile.

            "Grab the syringe. I'll search our doctor here," Sydney directed. Sark shook his head, rubbing the crook of his arm that was almost punctured by the virus-filled syringe.

            "You get the syringe. I'll search the doctor." He quickly moved to the doctor, rifling through his pockets to leave no room for argument.

            He heard Sydney chuckle, and tried to shut out the mocking laugh directed at him.

            Sark tried to hide the random shivers that came over him. He felt a little freaked out still from his near encounter with a horrible death. He tried business to hide it.

            "Can the CIA trace any calls made to the doctor's cell phone?" He tossed the phone to Sydney. They were onboard a jet, just waiting on the runway till they figured out what was next.

            "Probably. I'll call Marshall," Sydney said.

            Sark grabbed a drink and drank greedily. He sat and watched Sydney while he drank.

            Why was he doing this? He could hide elsewhere and let the CIA handle this manhunt. _What's in it for me to track down Sloane and almost have my insides liquified in the process?_

            _Sydney_. But was she worth it? She was already prophesied to save the world. Did she need him? Would it matter if he was in the picture? Sark doubted that.

            It didn't seem like she cared at all. After everything they'd been through, betrayals and surviving Irina and the CIA, even after he sprung a deal to free her from jail, she doubted him. And if she doubted him, or even just wanting to be with him, she didn't care.

            So why should he?


	29. Epilogue Part 6

Part Six

            Sark touched his head gingerly. A nice butterfly band-aid held together the skin around the gash in his head. 

            Marshall, who Sark learned was the CIA's tech recruit from SD-6, was bouncing around in front of him, running traces on the psycho doctor's phone calls.

            Sydney sat across from Sark, analyzing the latest intel on Sloane and Rambaldi. It wasn't much, and what they really needed was any break from Marshall.

            Jack joined the party. Sark sat up a bit straighter.

            "You both have been cleared by Medical Services. No signs of the virus," he said. Sark tried not to seem obviously overjoyed at the news.

            "What have they learned about the virus?" Sark asked. 

            "It's similar to Ebola, but faster and more severe. There's no record of it in the CDC's database," Jack answered expressionless. "There's a possibility that the DNA has been altered, but they're still analyzing that."

            Something about that jump-started Sark's thinking, but Marshall's babbling interrupted.

            "Yes!!" The short man reminded Sark of a racquet ball. He stopped when he realized his audience's impatient stares. "Oh, okay. I, uh, well, this is really cool. I cross referenced the—"

            "Marshall, the short version," Jack prompted, his face starting to turn red. Sark smirked.

            "Yeah, yeah, okay. One caller to this cell phone made calls from Egypt, Nairobi, and most recently, Spain."

            "Egypt and Nairobi would indicate Sloane," Sark said. Marshall snapped his fingers and pointed at Sark.

            "Bingo!"

            Suddenly, Vaughn and Weiss came in, newly returned from Egypt.

            Sark rolled his eyes, but held his tongue.

            "What'd we miss?" Vaughn asked. Sark opened his mouth for a smart remark, but closed it after a warning look from both Bristows. He frowned at them both, but stayed quiet.

            "We're not infected, the virus is Ebola-like, and Marshall traced Sloane's phone calls," Sydney summed up quickly.

            "How'd you guys even get that virus?" Weiss asked, his curiosity peaked. 

            Sydney took a deep breath. "It was in a syringe that one of Sloane's men was planning on injecting into Sark."

            Weiss' jaw dropped, which Sark had to admit amused him.

            "And you're not infected?" Weiss asked, turning toward Sark.

            "Sydney managed to disarm the man before he had a chance to inject the virus," Sark admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

            "That's a shame," Vaughn mumbled. Sark glared at him.

            "Just for that, Agent Vaughn, if you ever have the opportunity to be infected with some disease, I'll be sure to hold hostage the antidote." Sark's smirk was the fullest it'd been in awhile. 

            "Yes!!" It was Marshall again. Sark surveyed the man. He was positively odd, and it was almost baffling.

            "What, Marshall?" Jack prompted. 

            "Sloane's definitely in Spain. The trace is to a coastal residence," he answered excitedly.

            Sark cleared his throat, taking the floor for the moment. "We best hurry after him before he moves again."

            The agents started filing out of Marshall's hole, but Sark stopped and turned to the nervous man.

            "Marshall." He stopped his erratic scurrying and looked at Sark. "Could you keep analyzing the virus? I'd appreciate any updates on it."

            Marshall looked flattered at Sark's acknowledgment of his existence. Sark hid a smile, and turned to leave.

            Sydney, Agent Vaughn, Weiss and Sark were four hours into the journey to Spain when Sark whipped out his cell phone. He stood and paced to the back of the plane.

            He knew the three agents took notice of his movements. Sark could even detect a bit of distrust in their eyes. Even Sydney's.

            She'd hardly spoken to him since the hotel in Bangkok. Sark tried to approach her and finish the conversation she was so carefully avoiding. But he hadn't succeeded.

            For now, he ignored her by calling her mother.

            "I expected you to call sooner," she said, answering. Sark smiled as he turned his back on the agents behind him.

            "I apologize. We ran into some trouble in Kenya, but have picked up a trail again."

            "Where is Sloane?" Irina asked.

            "The coast of Spain. We're en route now," Sark answered. "The weapon Rambaldi mentioned, I think it is biological."

            "Did you find something in Kenya?"

            "A virus. The CIA is analyzing it still. But it makes me wonder how everything else fits into the prophecy."

                        He heard Irina breathe, thinking in relative silence. "I'm not sure. I've had little come up on my end."

            "There is one thing. Jack Bristow said the virus might have been altered," Sark said. "Could Rambaldi have altered the virus? Would he even have wanted to?"

            "Rambaldi's virus, I imagine, would be ready to go, with maybe only some foreseen adjustments."

            "So Sloane is modifying it now for his purposes?" Sark asked.

            "Possibly," Irina said. There was a pause, and for a moment, Sark thought she hung up. "Right before Sydney . . . left, she stole DNA-related research for me."

            "The human genome and DNA database," Sark filled in.

            "Yes. It may have some role in the prophecy. Maybe its use is to target someone specific."

            Sark started to see the pieces in his mind. "Thank you."

            He hung up, and as he turned back around, noticed how the others were still staring at him.

            "Eavesdropping, anyone?" he said to them.

            "Who were you talking to?" Vaughn demanded. Sark sighed.

            "Derevko."

            "You're still working for her," Vaughn stated. Sark sighed again and shook his head.

            "No, but we have similar interests here," he said as he glanced at Sydney. Thick-headed Vaughn missed it altogether.

            "What did she say?" Sydney asked. Sark noticed her brown hair, which looked so soft and rich. It was distracting.

            "She had a suggestion for us to pursue. I'll relay it to Marshall." He turned from her again for the call.

            Vaughn was quietly talking to Sydney when he hung up. By the look on Weiss' face, it was cheesy talk. As much as it pained him to witness it, Sark let the Twit continue. He felt resigned to his fate as failed suitor—as long as Vaughn kept talking her toward him and the CIA, Sark was fighting an uphill batle.

            Sark sat next to Weiss.

            "How can you stand this?" Weiss asked. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. Sark ran a hand through his blond hair.

            "Stand what?" he asked, though he suspected he knew what Weiss meant. 

            "Sark," he started, "I'm not blind. I know how you feel about her. And yet you sit and watch her with the competition."

            "I thought you and Vaughn were friends, Agent Weiss," Sark said with a smirk.

            "We are, but he feels something that she'll never return." Weiss had his attention with that. "I know how my government feels about you. I know how Vaughn feels about you. But Sydney is figuring it all out still."

            Sark leaned forward, elbows on knees like Weiss. He stared at the floor, contemplating Weiss' words. 

            "It's hard for her to decide objectively when she obviously has such strong, and negative, views about me," Sark said slowly. 

            Weiss snorted at that, making Sark look at him to see what amused him.

            "There are a lot of people with very strong views about you. She's just trying to balance them out with her own view."

            He was completely serious, which threw Sark off. To think he was having a bonding moment with Agent Twit's sidekick, and about Sydney no less.

            "I appreciate your honesty on the matter, Agent Weiss." Sark held out a hand to him. Weiss smiled, shaking it.

            "Call me Eric." Weiss stopped, with some thought suddenly crossing his mind. "Hey, what's your name, man?"

            Sark laughed, drawing a look from Sydney.

            "We're not that close, Eric." With that, he stood and went over to the bar.

            Sark fell asleep, something he only realized when he woke up. It took him a moment to gather his bearings. Weiss and Vaughn had crashed as well, but Sydney was awake.

            Sark could feel her eyes on him. He sat up, glancing her way. _Ha!!_ She _was_ looking at him. 

            He tried to play it cool, forcing himself to calmly run a hand through his hair. As he did that though, he realized it was spikier than usual.

            _Great, bed-head,_ Sark thought. He smirked at himself. _So much for playing it cool_.

            "Nice hair," Sydney said. She flashed him a grin, and that made Sark light up.

            "Thank you. You didn't sleep?" he asked. She shrugged.

            "I woke up an hour ago. I've been reviewing the intel." She looked back down at the file in hand. 

            _Oh no you don't_, Sark thought._ Don't go shutting down on me now_.

            "That's the first seemingly normal exchange we've had in awhile, Sydney," he said. He knew that may rile her up, but at least if she were agitated, she would act somewhat normal.

            Her eyes snapped up to glare at him, but his face had some pressing sincerity that made her soften.

            "I'd feel more comfortable reviewing the mission right now."

            "You know the mission inside and out. Relax a little," Sark said. She sighed and closed the folder. 

            "Fine." Her stubborn streak was evident on her face, but after a moment, she gave in. "So what were you and Weiss talking about?"

            Sark leaned back in his seat, drawing in a deep breath as he did so. 

            "You, actually."

            She was speechless at that, and Sark had to crack a smile at her expression.

            "You can't be terribly surprised. You must know that you're all I think about." He thought about that, and quickly amended: "Well, 85% of my thoughts are about you. I have to admit 15% went to that virus."

            She laughed at that, and Sark felt himself relax.

            "That was the first time I have ever seen you unnerved," she said. 

            "That's not true," Sark immediately said. "I'm unnerved whenever I'm around you."

            She stopped smiling, and Sark mentally slapped himself for that dramatic comment.

            "Sark," Sydney began, "I ... I don't know that we could ever be more than what we are."

            "What are we?" Sark asked. She didn't answer. "Friends? Spy-accomplices?" 

            "I don't know if we would work beyond that," she said carefully. Sark stood up, and he noticed his sudden movement made her recoil.

            He froze. "Sydney, I would never hurt you. And I won't let you push me away because you're not willing to risk taking another step."

            Weiss snorted in his sleep, drawing distracted glances from both him and Sydney. She spoke lowly but forcefully.

            "I have much more to risk than you do, Sark. I don't expect you to understand what, but believe me, I have more to risk." Her eyes were narrow but vibrant with her energy.

            Sark knew exactly what she was referring to.

            "I'm not the emotionless wall you assume I am, Sydney. I know you have friends and family. I know you have a life that'd be hard to leave." He ran another hand through his hair. "Is that really what's bothering you, or do you still not trust me?"

            "How can I trust you? You're unpredictably cold. I never know when you'll be Mr. Sensitive or when you'll be Mr. Assassin!" She huffed out a frustrated sigh. Sark pursed his lips together.

            "I have my life and my ways, just like you," he said, his voice low and rumbling. "And I'm not wild about the idea of giving it up, especially to be under the constant, watchful eye of the CIA! But at least I'd consider it, for you."

            She looked stunned at that, then stumped. Sark felt his heart race as he waited for her next words. 

            Vaughn started to stir. Sydney glanced quickly at him, then back at Sark. She sighed.

            "This is complicated, Sark. Just . . ." She was hesitating, and Sark saw indecision and felt himself hope. "Just forget it. Don't do me any favors." His heart twisted like a heart attack as she sighed again and went to the front of the plane.

            Sark leaned forward on his knees again, studying the floor as he thought and tried to compose himself.                           

            When he looked up, he saw Weiss give him a thumbs-up and a wide, encouraging grin. Sark shook his head.

            Weiss clamped down on his lip, giving Sark a stubborn glare. Behind Vaughn's back, Weiss motioned toward Sydney. Sark shook his head almost imperceptibly. Weiss pointed at Sydney again, and mouthed 'go after her.' 

            Sark glared at his new comrade, but complied. He could feel Vaughn staring at him as he approached Sydney, but ignored him.

            She didn't turn to face him. "Sark, leave me alone."

            "Look, I know you don't want to discuss this anymore, but I need you to do something for me," Sark said quickly before she could object. She nodded for him to continue. "This line of work requires both of us to do some morally-questionable things. Don't judge me when we're working. Especially when I'm working to help you."

            Sydney glared at him, but nodded. Sark turned away from her.

            "Sark." He didn't look back, but stopped to listen. "Thank you. For helping me." He nodded, still facing away from her.

            The mission was simple, but dangerous: infiltrate Sloane's location, take out any hostiles, apprehend or kill Sloane, and retrieve the virus and delivery system. If necessary, destroy the virus.

            _Simple_. They landed and were en route to the coast.

            His cell phone rang.

            "Yes," he said calmly while the others watched him.

            "Sark." It was Irina. "Did you negotiate immunity with the CIA?"

            _Random thought_. "I—" _Hmmm_. "No." _Never on paper—How did I miss that?_

            "I know you were probably busy getting Sydney out of jail when you went to them, but really, Sark. I taught you better than that," Irina said. Sark smirked into the phone.

            "What do you suspect?"

            "It may not come directly from the CIA—maybe NSC instead—but they'll try to trap you, after you've helped them. You have to negotiate immunity for your past actions."

            Sark could easily picture Agent Vaughn jumping out of a corner after the mission, saying something like, "Aha!!" and then cuffing him. Sark shook that from his mind.

            "I understand. Thank you."

            Vaughn shot him a suspicious glare, complete with wrinkled forehead. Sark smiled sweetly.

            "Just some advice from my alma mater."

            Sloane's location was remote, but very Fort Knox-like. The building was a very classic-looking estate, built right into the cliff above the sea. Access from the road was limited. The heaviest concentration of guards were at the front gate and road access. 

            Weiss stopped a mile up the road. "I'll monitor from here. It'll take me ten minutes to tap into their feed. If you follow the cliff, you can come from behind the estate."

            "Let's mount up," Vaughn said. Sark couldn't hold back a smirk and a laugh at that. _Mount up? Who _says_ that!! _Even Sydney couldn't hide a smile.

            All three had changed into their black tactical gear. Vaughn had a secure container for the virus. Each was armed. Sark had his usual knife, two handguns and several clips of ammunition. He looked around to the others.

            "Shall we?"

            They started out. The Spanish sun was disappearing into the sea, and Sark appreciated what little light there was. The footing ahead of them was loose and unstable.

            Sark had never really climbed free-style. There was always a rappeling rope securing him. Granted, they were climbing across, closer to Sloane's estate. But it still was slightly bothersome that the crashing waves below were mixed with jagged rocks.

            _Enough!_ Sark shook doubts and fear away, surprised that it had even surfaced in the first place. He took the lead, ignoring the steep drop below. His hands deftly held on to any crevice in the rocks. He moved quickly but steadily. His feet found holes in the rocks while he pulled himself along.

            The sharp edges were tiring his hands, but the gloves helped. Sark felt his foot slip at one point, but caught himself with his hand grips. He checked behind him, and saw Sydney and Vaughn moving pretty steadily.

            Suddenly, something made Sark freeze. He melded into the rocks, looking above him. Someone was there. Sark grabbed a pebble and chucked it at Vaughn, getting his and Sydney's attention. He motioned for them to stop.

            Whoever it was moved away. Sark climbed up, trying to get a look. He moved inch by inch, silently to not give away their position.

            He hadn't realized it but they were already at the edge of the estate. Four guards were in back, circling around. Sark could see several surveillance cameras. He ducked back down behind the rocks and tapped his ear piece.

            "Weiss."

            "Go ahead."

            "Need to know when we're clear to move," Sark said softly. 

            "Where are you?"

            "Northwest corner."

            "The cameras do not see that far by the cliffs, but I'll tell you when you have an opening with the guards," Weiss answered. Sark looked to Sydney and Vaughn and they got in position to ascend quickly. 

            "Okay, five seconds, and you're clear to move into the trees directly east of you." The three agents started climbing. Sark made it to firm ground first. He double checked the area, then quickly moved for the trees.

            "Now what," Vaughn whispered. Sark shot him a look.

            "I'm open to suggestions. But we're covered best in these trees."

            Vaughn looked around, glancing for solutions.

            "Let's move closer to the building through the trees. We can even climb up and get to the second floor," Vaughn said. Sark looked to Sydney. She nodded.

            "I'll go first." With that, she took off.

            The guards were still close, and Sark was uneasy about how loud Sydney and Vaughn seemed to be. But the guards didn't even flinch.

            Until 20 seconds later.

            "Guys, I have company," Weiss suddenly said over the comm. "Shoot, we've been made!"

            As if on cue, the guards in front of them suddenly got very paranoid. Five more stormed out of the estate.

            Sark and Sydney shared a tense look. Sark raised his gun and started taking aim at the guards, who were headed to the trees and shaded areas.

            Not much registered after that. It was all automatic. Sark brought down two guards with his first two shots. When the return fire came, he dodged and took cover behind a tree trunk. He didn't know what Sydney and Vaughn were doing, but judging by the gunfire, he wasn't the only one firing back.

            The pressure was on—more guards were headed into the trees. Sark realized that he was being pushed back, towards the cliffs.

            Something moved to his left, and Sark quickly fired. _Guard_. Where had he come from? Then he saw it. Sydney and Vaughn were disarmed but still fighting several men. Sark raised his gun, determined to even the odds.

            Someone dove into him, and in the turmoil Sark lost his first gun. He rolled with the figure, trying to disarm him. He saw a flash of a blade but caught it before the guard plunged the blade into him. Sark was on his back. He slammed his knee into the guard's back, and shoved him and the knife away. The guard fell back, but quickly got to his feet. Sark was ready.

            The guard was bold, he'd give him that. His attack was immediate, kicks and punches. It hardly let up. Sark was on the defensive. He blocked and managed a few hits in between, but he was nervous.

            He could hear the ocean behind him, and he knew he was very close to the cliffs. The guard threw another punch. Sark dodged and tried to move to the side, but slipped on loose dirt. He went down on one knee. Sark saw the guard smile and swing his leg at him. The impact was hard, but minimal to what was coming.

            Sark felt himself falling back, dropping down quickly as air rushed by him. The roar of the waves grew closer, and he noticed the ocean spray on his body before it hit the water.


	30. Epilogue Part 7

Part Seven

            The water was hard and freezing. Sark plunged deep into the waves, the momentum from his fall pushing him down further and further. His lungs screamed for air, partially because of the shock of the cold.

            His descent was slowing, but the waves were pushing and pulling him beneath the water. He kicked hard and used his arms to pull towards the surface.

            Sark's head broke the surface of the water, and he drank in the air and some seawater. A wave crashed over him, forcing him under the water again.

            His body flipped over and twisted with the wave. Suddenly any air in his lungs was knocked out as his body hit a rock. Pain shot through his cold body, but Sark clawed for the surface again.

            The waves were relentless, but Sark adapted to their rhythm. With a surge of effort, Sark moved with the waves. He sputtered the seawater as he tried to breathe, but the thin shoreline wasn't far.

            At last he felt ground beneath him, and he pulled himself onto the rocky sand. The waves lapped up on him. Sark coughed violently, ridding his body of the salt water. 

            His body seemed to creak as he moved. He felt stiff, and his arm stung. A nice gash bled openly on it. _Must have been the rocks_. 

            He got to his feet, and tried to figure out where he was. Night was in full force. Sark could see the white caps out in the ocean, but beyond that, details weren't standing out. The cliffs—he was still near where he fell, but the ocean had moved him south of the estate. The dark mass of rocks towered over him.

            Sark knew he was in no shape to climb. His arm was weak because of the gash, his boots were wet, and he was shivering from the cold on his wet body. __

_            Not good for a free climb._ But Sark didn't see any timely alternatives. Until he turned around.

            Something . . . it was faint but something—_Is that a staircase?!_ Sark trotted gingerly down the narrow beach.

            It _was_ a staircase! It was old, rusted and rickety, but it was a staircase leading to a neighbor's property. _Imbecile CIA_. _They didn't think of a simpler way get to Sloane's?_ Granted, he'd still have to access the estate, but at least it'd be on firm ground.

            Sark started his way up the stairs. He was cautious; the stability of the stairs was close to that of a rock slide. But that didn't stop him from hurrying.

            Sloane now had Sydney, Weiss and Vaughn. _If they aren't already dead_. Sark shook that thought from his head. Sloane wouldn't kill Sydney. She was a part of this, somehow, and Sloane wouldn't harm her. _ Unless the prophecy called for it_.

            He ran up the last few steps.

            A nice wall blocked Sark from Sloane's estate. Sark noted the broken glass shards cemented onto the top of the wall. And the security cameras.

            He stayed in the shadows of trees, watching the cameras as they swivelled from side to side. He watched until he got the timing down. At the right moment, he quickly climbed a tree. He was halfway up when he froze for the cameras. Ten more seconds, and he climbed more.

            Getting over the wall wasn't terribly difficult, even with the glass. But the patrolling guards required some creativity. 

            Sark dropped down by the wall, on Sloane's grounds. He felt around in the dirt for a rock, then chucked it by the cliffs. The guard near it called to another, and they went to check it out.

            Sark darted through the trees to the side of the building. He watched for the other guards from the shadows still. In front of him was a window, half buried in the ground. It was dark inside.

            Glancing around again, Sark rushed for the window. He pulled out his knife to jimmy the lock. He slipped through into the darkness inside.

            Voices, in the distance. He wasn't alone on this level.

            He took a step forward and froze. His shoes, still wet, squished. Sark clenched his fists. _Of all the things . . ._ He bent over and took off his boots.

            The basement level was pretty bare. Actually, it reminded Sark of a Mexican dungeon. As he rounded a corner, Sark saw why.

             There were two guards in this prison area, and they watched two disheartened CIA agents. Sark snuck up behind the first guard. He grabbed the man's head and twisted quickly to his left. The snap was loud enough to draw the prisoners' attention. Without taking a pause, Sark stabbed the other man while clapping a hand over his mouth.

            "Sark!" Weiss looked pretty happy considering he was chained to a wall. Even Vaughn looked pleasantly optimistic.

            Sark didn't feel that optimism, not yet. Not until Sydney was safe.

            "Where's Sydney?" he said relatively calmly.

            "Somewhere with Sloane. I thought you fell off the cliff," Vaughn said. Sark shrugged, and moved to free the two agents.

            "I did, but I didn't go splat. Sorry," he said. Vaughn shook his head.

            "Under the circumstances, I'd prefer to have you alive," Vaughn said. Sark recognized that as close to a bonding moment that he'd ever have with Vaughn. It kind of frightened him.

            "It seems we grossly underestimated Sloane's security," Sark commented. Weiss looked sheepish.

            "I think I might have alerted them when I tapped into the surveillance feed," he said. Sark shot him a look.

            "See why I prefer working for myself?" Sark said. "I can't rely on anyone these days." Weiss shot him a short glare but gratefully rubbed his free wrists.

            "Hey man, what happened to your shoes?" Weiss asked.

            Sark sighed, flabbergasted at this questioning when so many other things were at stake. "I fell off a cliff, remember? Into the ocean. Wet shoes make noise."

            Weiss nodded, as if he knew the answer the whole time. It drew a light laugh from Vaughn.

            Sark grabbed the fallen guards' weapons and chucked them to the agents. "We should split up," he said as he pulled out his backup gun. He checked it, making sure it was still sound after the seawater.

            Vaughn nodded, and Weiss checked his gun. "Lead the way, man."

            The three men headed up the stone stairs to the main level. Sark peered around the corner of the stairwell. A guard circled the foyer in front of a stairway. Sark grabbed his knife and flipped it in the air. He caught it by the blade, then quickly rounded the corner.

            He chucked the blade at the guard, who went down within impact. Sark retrieved his knife and signaled for Weiss and Vaughn to come.

            "I'll take the top level," Sark volunteered, heading for the guarded stairway. 

            Vaughn pointed across the hall. "I'll search out here. Weiss, take the second level."

            Weiss followed Sark up the stairs, then split off on the second floor. Sark continued up.

            Just as his feet touched the level, someone ambushed him. Sark dodged the wide punch, and swivelled on one foot to elbow the person in the back. The man grunted, and Sark followed through with a blow to the man's head.

            Sark kept moving. His instincts told him he was close to Sydney, but that meant there would be plenty of danger ahead.

            But oddly, when he came to one room, it was unguarded. Sark opened the door, barging through and aiming at anything that moved.

            Sydney was on a medical table, strapped down. She wasn't moving.

            _Please be unconscious!_ Sark went to her side and gently nudged her.

            "Sydney," he said softly. He checked her pulse. It was strong, and she started to move. "Sydney."

            Her eyes fluttered open slowly. The look she gave him . . . it warmed him.

            "I thought you were gone," she said. Sark smiled.

            "You can't get rid of me that easily," he said. He loosened the straps holding her down. "Are you all right?"

            She nodded, sitting up slowly. "Yeah. I got knocked out, just after you . . . fell." Sark smiled faintly, but froze when he saw her arm.

            "What happened to your arm?" he said, his tone low and tense. In the crook of her arm was a puncture mark.

            "I drew her blood," a new voice interrupted. Sark whirled around, aiming the gun at the source, when he felt a prick in his chest. Sark looked down to see a dart sticking out of his chest, but he didn't feel weak.

            "Your tranquilizer failed," Sark said with a smirk to the man he recognized as Arvin Sloane. With that, he fired.

            Sloane stumbled out of the room, clutching his shoulder. Sark plucked out the dart and glanced at Sydney. He tossed her his gun. Then he pulled out his knife and started after Sloane, with Sydney at his heels.

            They ran down the hall, searching the rooms. Sark heard Sloane call out ahead of them. He glanced at Sydney, whose vengeance shown on her face. They darted after Sloane.

            He led them to an open, tall room. Sark and Sydney spread out.

            "That wasn't a tranquilizer, Mr. Sark," Sloane called out. He was hiding somewhere in the room. Sark tread carefully.

            "Then what was it, Sloane?" He held his knife at his side, his arms down but ready to gut Sloane. He hoped he'd get that opportunity. Especially after what he said next.

            "It's the virus. It's now in your system." Sark stopped as Sloane continued. "You were the one who told Sydney about SD-6."

            "Yes, I don't pretend to care for someone and then lie to them," Sark said. _Not anymore, anyway._ He hoped the jab would get under Sloane's skin.

            "That virus, especially in your weakened state, will spread quickly. I'd give you four hours until symptoms show."

            Sark saw Sydney's horrified look. _Is that concern I see there?_

            "You're bluffing," Sark shouted. _Please be bluffing, please be bluffing_. Sloane's laughter filled the air, and Sark noted how sinister it sounded.

            "I'm afraid I'm not, Mr. Sark. Nor am I bluffing about the virus's delivery to the general population."

            Sark and Sydney shared another look.

            "Why?!" It was Sydney's voice, and it was pleading yet angry.

            "Sydney. You know you're like a daughter to me," Sloane called out. "But Rambaldi . . . This is the last step to fulfill his works."

            "Even if it is, do you think it's right to use his ancient rocket to spread a terrible disease to the world?!" Sydney almost screamed at him. 

            That's when it hit Sark. _He's not bluffing. _He was infected. And soon everyone would be.


	31. Epilogue Part 8a

Part Eight A

            Sloane continued to talk with Sydney.

            "By doing this, Sydney, something more will come," Sloane said. He paused, making Sydney glance at Sark. He was listening for Sloane, working his way to the madman.

            "Immortality, Sydney! By spreading this virus, someone will survive. And that person will have the necessary antibodies to survive this and anything else to come."

            Sark rolled his eyes, but moved closer to Sloane.

            "Of course, it'd be easier to find that individual if I had the genetic database you beat me to, but I'll be able to negotiate that and more with governments everywhere," Sloane continued. There was a dream-like quality in his voice, and Sark seriously doubted the man's sanity. "All of this, with a push of the button on the launch remote."

            Sark hurried his pace stealthily. _He has a remote detonator._ Sark wouldn't allow Sloane to use it.

            Sark hid behind a bookcase, knowing Sloane was within thirty feet of him. Sydney kept him talking.

            "Sloane, don't!" Sydney cried out. "Now you know why I couldn't stay with SD-6!" It seemed somewhat tangential to Sark, but it got Sloane's attention.

            "You didn't stay at SD-6 because of your attraction to the mysterious Mr. Sark," Sloane said. Sark noticed the disdain in Sloane's voice, but kind of liked where this was headed. He glanced at Sydney, raising an eyebrow at her.

            She looked flushed, but kept on target. "No, I left because you lied to me. You act like a family friend and a patriot, but then deceived me to get what _you_ wanted." She might as well have been spitting at Sloane. "To think how many times you wrapped my missions in the flag, like I was saving the world. All you ever wanted me to do was get you closer to power."

            "Sydney, I've always thought of you as my own daughter—"

            "Save it! I have a father, and he's definitely not you!" Sydney shouted. Sark saw the situation deteriorating, and moved closer to Sloane by crouching behind a large decorative vase.

            Sloane was quiet for a moment.

            "It pains me to hear you say that, Sydney. But I'm afraid it doesn't matter anymore." And then Sloane laughed. It was low at first, but then loud and demonic. Sark gritted his teeth, knowing this could be the end. With that, he charged the man.

            The surprise in Sloane's eyes was all he needed to see to know he'd succeeded. Sark threw his shoulder into the man's body, pinning him to the ground. Sloane cried out, his shoulder still bleeding from Sark's shot.

            Sark put the knife to the man's throat, but Sloane grabbed Sark's arm where his gash from the rocks was. Sark's grip weakened, Sloane used the chance to knee Sark in the side.

            Sark rolled away but got to his feet again. Sloane was clawing for the launch detonator, just inches away from him.. Sark's eyes grew wide and he started to lunge for the device when a shot rang out.

            Sloane's reach stopped, and he sighed out his pain. Sark heard him call out Sydney's name faintly before he stopped moving. Sark checked the man's pulse.

            "He's dead," he said aloud. He heard Sydney breathe a shaky sigh of relief. 

            She stood over her dead, former boss. Sark didn't miss the sorrow there. _Maybe at one time she thought of him as a father_. But Sark imagined that was long ago.

            It was over. And for Sark, it was almost over. The same thought seemed to hit Sydney as she suddenly snapped her head up to stare at him.

            "Are you all right?" she said, running to him. He nodded quietly.

            "Syd! Are you okay?" It was Vaughn, followed by Weiss. "We heard gun shots." Sark didn't look at them, but held his gaze on Sydney. She just looked at him back. He could see the sadness in her eyes, the horror at the thought of what already was happening to him.

            "We're all right. Sydney got Sloane," Sark filled in for her.

            "Is he dead?"

            Sark nodded. "The delivery system, that rocket—it has to be around here somewhere. He had a remote to it. Check the roof."

            Weiss raised a hand. "I'll search for it." Vaughn stayed put.

            "We've neutralized the rest of the guards, and backup's on the . . ."

            He looked from Sydney to Sark and back again. 

            "What's up, guys?" he asked. Sydney blinked.

            "Sloane," she began, clearing her throat. "He shot Sark with a dart containing the virus." For once, Vaughn had the sense to shut up.

            "Listen, we should get going," Sark said, clearing his throat. He ran a nervous hand through his salty hair. "Sydney, you should let the CIA know your success. Agent Vaughn, you can tell them I no longer have to be apprehended." He paused, and from Vaughn's reaction, those were the agent's orders all along. Sark smirked at him. "I'll help Agent Weiss."

            Sark turned to leave.

            "Wait," Vaughn said. Sark stopped. "Stay here. Preserve your strength. I'll help Weiss." With that, Vaughn was gone.

            Sark spotted a chair and took a seat. He inspected his arm. The blood, he knew, was dangerous now. He ripped off his other sleeve and used it to tie off the wound.

            When he looked up, Sydney was still staring at him. She seemed . . . stunned.

            "Sydney," he said softly. She shook her head and looked at the floor, trying to hide the tears that were coming.

            "No . . . no! You can't just accept this, Sark!!" she yelled, though he was only a few feet from her.

            "This uncomplicates things, Sydney. For both of us." He stood up to collect his knife and move on.

            "No," Sydney said. She placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back to face her. "Sark, listen to me. You are not just giving up. I'll call the CIA. Maybe they can reverse-engineer an antidote."

            Sark laughed. "I know you think highly of them, but the CIA is not composed of miracle-workers." She looked hurt by that, by his flippant behavior, but Sark continued. "Besides, based on what Sloane told us, I think I'll be beyond help in a few hours."

            "He said symptoms—"

            "Would show in about 4 hours. After the symptoms show, it won't take long until I'm too far affected by the virus," Sark said. 

            Her eyes were puffy and blotched pink. She wiped at her face. "I am _not_ leaving you here." He knew what she was trying to say, beyond the current situation. Sark moved past that.

            "I don't suggest that you do. You should contact a medical team and have them take me back to LA. The CIA and your government can learn a lot from this."

            "This?!" she said skeptically. "From your body? Sark, you aren't dead yet! Let me try! Let me hope—" She'd been flailing her arms at him, frustrated and torn. Sark grabbed her and pushed her against a wall.

            "Sydney, you have to focus now. Focus on the CIA, your job and your future," he said forcefully. "And as much as I'd love to be a part of that future, I won't be. I knew I wouldn't be before this mission started."

            She had that stunned look on her face again. Her mouth hung open, searching for something to say. Sark gave her a brief, tight smile, squeezed her shoulder, and went to help Weiss and Vaughn.

            Sark wasn't sure if it was in his head or not, but he was feeling weak. _Of course I feel weak—I fell off a cliff, injured my arm, infiltrated Sloane's estate, rescued all three CIA agents, and it's not even 2200 hours yet_.

            _Either that, or the virus is acting quickly_. 

            Sark didn't go to the roof to help Weiss or Vaughn. Instead, he slowly walked down the stairs. Each step pounded through his body like a loud, ticking clock. His eyes kept to the floor. 

            He tried not to dwell on it, but it was hard not to. _Odd_, he thought. He risked his life all the time, and now his time was up. _But I had control of my life. _He didn't now.

            Sark wasn't too keen about lying down and waiting for the virus to ravage his body inside out. He wasn't keen about volunteering to be a lab rat for the CIA while he died.  But he was devastated that he was going to lose Sydney, forever.

            He sat on the bottom step, and his eyes followed the blood trail of the guard he killed earlier. Sark wished he could go like that. _Quick and unexpected_. He shook his head. He knew he'd be to disappointed in himself if he was caught that off guard.

            "Sark." It was Sydney. Sark turned to watch her descend. She had that same overwhelming sadness in her eyes, but she was trying to hide it now. "I was thinking, about Rambaldi's prophecy."

            Sark nodded for her to continue, somewhat pleased that she wasn't going to make this harder for him.

            "Well, I was supposed to stop Sloane."

            "You did. You pulled the trigger," Sark said. Sydney shook her head.

            "Yeah, but . . . is that it? I mean, I couldn't have stopped the prophecy without you," she said. "So why aren't you in it?"

            Sark chewed on his lip, and shrugged. His head wasn't in the game, and frankly, he didn't care about Rambaldi's mess anymore.

            Her cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

            She held out her cell phone to him. "Marshall, for you."

            Sark took the phone.

            "Yes, Marshall," Sark said with some indifference.

            "Sark, er, um, Mr. Sark, or do you—"

            "'Sark' is fine, Marshall."

            "Oh, okay. We have that database, with everyone's DNA," Marshall stuttered. "Well, Sydney got it, but you know that."

            "Keep talking, Marshall," Sark prompted. _I don't have much time here_.

            "Well, I ran the DNA from the virus, and a match came up."

            "Really? A match to an individual person?" It was just like Sloane said, but without the world getting infected. An individual person with the same DNA would inherently have the antibodies. . . .

            "Yeah, I know, weird huh? But it gets weirder," Marshall said, his voice bouncy and excited.

            Sark swallowed hard, waiting. "Who is it?" His voice was barely a whisper. The hairs on the back of his neck started to rise, and he knew. Sark looked at her as Marshall said the name.

            "Sydney."

            The pieces clicked._ I may not be screwed after all_. Sark passed the phone to her, never taking his eyes off of her face.

            "I know why you're in the prophecy." The phone was barely in her hands when Sark suddenly felt very light headed. He grabbed the sides of his head, trying to stop the spinning inside.

            "Sark?" he heard.

            "It's starting," he mumbled as he slouched over in darkness.


	32. Epilogue Part 8B

Part Eight B

            The beeping was getting annoying, especially since it seemed to be in sync with the pounding in his head.

            His eyes were fuzzy, and so were the images they saw. He raised a hand to rub his face, but was tied down.

            That alarmed him immediately. Sark fought against the restraints, and he heard the heart monitor beep quicker and louder.

            _Calm down!_ Sark froze and looked around him. If he was in a hospital, he definitely had a private room. A nurse was right outside his room. His struggling must have made her nervous. A doctor and an armed guard came in.

            "Mr. Sark. Glad to see you're awake."

            "Where am I?" Sark asked. His throat was raw yet scratchy. His normally smooth accent now sounded foreign, even to him.

            The doctor didn't even look up from the clipboard, and the guard kept one hand on the butt of his pistol.

            "You're in Los Angeles, at the CIA Joint Task Force Center."

            _Wait. L.A. is a pretty long journey from Spain_. How long had he been out, and what had happened in the meantime?

            "These are different accommodations from my last stay here," Sark said with a touch of levity. He had plenty of questions, but none he expected the doctor to know or answer. "Although I think the restraints are the only reminder of that."

            The doctor cracked an almost imperceptible grin. "We can remove those now." He undid the restraints. "You were seizing somewhat frequently." With that the doctor shut down and focused on the medical chart.

            _Am I not under arrest then? _ He fully expected it, given the guard and waking up to being tied down. _What is going on?_

            "Is Sydney Bristow here? I'd appreciate the opportunity to speak with her," Sark petitioned politely.

            The doctor shook his head. "She left a few hours ago. You need to rest still." With that he left, with the guard in tow.

            Sark glared at the man's back as he left, mentally adding him to his personal hit list. But then the rational, and more compassionate, side of him took over. _Well, I _have_ evidently cheated death. Some more rest might be in order_. He closed his eyes, and was out before he could dwell long on why Sydney wasn't nearby.

            His second visit to consciousness was less jarring. His body felt stiff, but Sark imagined that had something to do with bed sores.

            A nurse was monitoring him, jotting notes down on that clipboard. 

            "How are you feeling?" she asked cheerily. Sark tried to smile but frankly just didn't feel like it.

            "You probably know better than I," he said hoarsely. She smiled at that.

            "You're recovering well. You're not contagious, but I would watch to not contaminate anyone with your blood."

            "No more donations to the American Red Cross," he said with a half attempted grin. His humor was effective. "How long till I can leave here?"

            "Medically, you can leave tomorrow. Agent Bristow is waiting to tell you about other issues," the nurse said. She gave him an encouraging, tight grin and then left.

            Agent Bristow . . . _Jack or __Sydney__?_ Sark thought. _Please be Sydney_. 

            He watched the glass door, and soon enough Agent Bristow came in. 

            Agent Jack Bristow.


	33. Epilogue Part 9A

Part 9A

            Jack's stone face was in place, and despite his condition, Sark tried to match it with his own facade.                                                                                          

            "Mr. Sark," Jack addressed with enough disdain. 

            "Hello, Mr. Bristow," Sark said with an imperceptible swallow. Jack stopped at the edge of Sark's painfully uncomfortable hospital bed, and the stare-down began.

            Sark wasn't about to allow Jack think he was going to be intimidated, sick or not. So he kept his silence and just smirked. It was the longest smirk of his life, with the possible exception of their first meeting.

            About two full minutes later, Jack ended the charade.

            "I'm here to brief you on your current status."

            Sark shot him a look. "My current status—are you referring to my medical condition, my standing with the CIA, or my relationship with your daughter?"

            Jack was silent for a moment, but then, surprisingly, adopted a semi-smirk on his face. "All of the above, actually."

            It was Sark's facade that broke. He couldn't help but be surprised that Jack was getting to the point, on all the topics Sark wanted answers to—even Sydney.

            "You collapsed in Spain, after which Sydney and the team took you to a CIA hospital. Marshall's discovery led the medical team to know how to treat you—with Sydney's blood. You started to recover almost immediately, but the side effects of the virus continued to run its course. You were transferred here for observation and treatment a day after the mission."

            "So I'm cured, thanks to Sydney?" Sark summed up. Jack gave a short nod.

            "You had some rough spots just getting over the virus, but the staff here was able to get you past that," he said. Sark narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion.

            "Mr. Bristow, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were almost concerned for me." Sark's smirk popped up immediately, but Jack just remained stone-faced.

            "I'm concerned only for Sydney and her welfare," he clarified. "However, since you seem to play a role in that, I will say this: the moment you don't respect her the way that she deserves, I will personally hunt you down."

            The intense sincerity in his eyes startled Sark, but also made him realize what Jack had said.

            "So," Sark began tentatively, "does that mean you approve of me as a . . . suitor, for lack of a better word?" The silence and dark glaring eyes were all the answer Sark needed. And that answer made him beam.

            He almost thought he saw some levity in Jack's eyes, which made him think this whole rough talk had been a protective father ploy. However, Sark didn't doubt Jack's resolve.

            "I have one question, Mr. Bristow," Sark said politely with just respectable traces of a smile on his lips. "If I'm to be able to court your daughter, I imagine it's not from that glass cell."

            Jack glared, reluctant almost to admit the truth. "Due to the pleas of Agent Weiss, Vaughn, and my daughter, the CIA reviewed your situation. Given your willingness to change your allegiances to help us, and your performance in Spain, you have been pardoned."

            Sark's grin spread to both ears. He had to admit, it almost pleased him to hear this from Jack.

            "However," Jack said, cutting off Sark's early victory grin, "there are certain expectations."

            Sark nodded. "I assumed as much."

            Jack dug into his suit coat and produced a thick envelope. "Your agreement. Review it and sign it, and you'll be free to leave this facility tomorrow."

            With that, Jack turned to leave.

            "Mr. Bristow," Sark said, stopping the stern man. Jack turned, solemnly watching Sark. "Thank you." Jack just nodded, and left.

            Sark released a long, stress-filled breath. He suddenly felt ready for another nap, drained from the face-off with Sydney's dad.

            But he forced himself to sit up as much as he could and read the letter dictating his future. He almost strangled himself with the various tubes and wires on him, but managed to avoid that tragedy. He reached for a tall bottle of water next to his bed. His sip was long, washing out the cottony and generally unpleasant taste in his mouth.

            He unfolded the letter and started reading.

            However, that didn't last long, as he discovered later. Sydney walked in a few hours later to find him sleeping, the letter resting on his hospital gown-clad chest.

            She was smiling at the sight, something that despite his grogginess he saw as a good sign.

            "You look amazing," he said, his voice still grating. She did look great; he'd never seen her dressed so casually. She wore dark, fitting jeans and a tan oversized sweater. It was comfortable, and gave Sark the sense of what she would look like in her apartment. This was Sydney, the real Sydney.

            She smiled at his compliment.

            "I'd say the same for you, but your hair could really be considered a weapon right now," she said, laughing a bit.

            Sark tried not to seem embarrassed, but he thought of how pathetic he must have looked to Jack Bristow. To see how bad it was, he raised one hand and gingerly touched the spiky hair.

            She was right; it was out of control.

            "Well, I'd love to see your hair after sleeping for the majority of the last few days," Sark said with a smirk. She just laughed harder.

            Her laughter lightened him. It made him breathe easier. When she quieted down though, he could tell it hadn't been so easy the last few days.

            "You had us worried," she said, the concern quite evident in her longing brown eyes. 

            "Us? Don't tell me Agent Vaughn's been biting his nails over my condition," he said jokingly. She cracked a smile, but stayed serious.

            "You were hardly infected long when you collapsed," she said quietly.

            "So much for Sloane's 4-hour theory," Sark said with a light grin. She smiled quickly.

            "I was afraid you wouldn't make it," Sydney continued. "And that I wouldn't ever be able to tell you the truth."

            He hadn't meant to be so obvious, but he sat up straighter to hear what was coming next.

            "I know we didn't promise anything, any future between us. And I know that I was the one pushing you away." She tucked her hair behind one ear. "And I regret that."

            Sark didn't say anything for several moments. He ran various speeches in his head, different scenarios. He finally bit his lip and tried from scratch.

            "Sydney, I know you have a life that you want to keep up. You have friends and your father. Deep down, I wanted you to leave them all for me, but I realize now that isn't fair." Sark drew in a deep breath, preparing himself for his next admission. "I'll stay with you and join your life, if you want me. And if you don't, you'll never have to see me again." He paused, watching her reaction. But Sydney was blank, maybe stunned at best. Sark tried humor.

            "Of course, that's assuming this letter says I can go free."

            She laughed, and Sark realized something was holding her back from making the decision.

            "The letter says you cannot engage in terrorist plots. It says you either have to help the CIA in its efforts, or lead a normal civilian life," Sydney filled him in. "But it leaves that choice to you."

            Sark leaned back heavily. It was a choice he didn't think he'd have. He actually assumed that if the CIA did pardon him, they would force him to hunt down Irina and others. But somehow he had been given the chance to leave this business.

            "I didn't think they would allow me a choice," Sark said, staring at the letter.

            "They didn't at first," Sydney said. Sark looked up to her, pressing her to continue. "But I convinced them that because you didn't have a choice before, you were forced into working for my mother and doing the things you've done."

            There was some bitterness there as she referred to his past actions.

            "How do you feel about those things?" Sark asked cautiously. Relationship-wise, Sark knew he was playing with fire. But he had to know if she'd accepted him.

            "You know how I feel about your past actions," Sydney said just as carefully. "But I feel good about you as you are now."

            Sark cracked a sarcastic grin. "What, weak and helpless?" She laughed aloud again as she shook her head.

            "No." She looked at him directly. "Strong and changed." With that, she leaned over him and kissed him on his forehead. "Rest up. Think about your options. I'll see you in the morning."

            With that, she turned and left. Sark followed her with his eyes, waiting for her to look back.

            She did.

            Morning came, and Sark was a mess. He showered, though it took ten minutes to be detached from all the IVs and machines. He didn't realize how dirty he was just from lying around, but man, the shower felt good!

            As he dressed in the suit left for him, Sark's mind was in disarray. He hadn't decided which way to go—stay in the industry or get out and live as he dreamed about since he met Sydney.

            He knew he'd be forced to go after past associates if he stayed with the CIA. And he knew that he wanted out of this business. Sydney probably expected him to leave.

            But if he left completely, how would he see Sydney? He could stay in Los Angeles, but being in LA meant that the CIA would probably keep constant tabs on him or worse.

            _Maybe that's why she didn't answer about me staying or leaving_. Either way, she wouldn't be happy. _If I willingly chose to stay with the CIA, she'd think I'm addicted to the danger._ He nodded to himself. _But if I leave, she won't come with me. And I can't stay without the CIA constantly watching for me to slip up._

            _So where does that leave me?_

            Sark used his fingers to spike and style his hair, looking at the mirror in the tiny bathroom. He noticed how thin his face was. His cheeks almost sunk a bit, and he had gray bags under his eyes.

            He smirked at the reflection briefly, then turned and left the medical services unit. Two guards escorted him to the briefing room, where the ensemble of agents and superiors awaited.

            Kendall spoke first.

            "Mr. Sark. I believe Agent Bristow brought you up to speed about your situation. You've been given your options." He paused for effect. "What have you decided?"

            Sark took a deep breath, and pulled the letter out of his suit jacket. He stared at it for two seconds before surveying the people in the room.

            Vaughn was tight lipped and as wrinkly as ever. Weiss had a positive expression, and practically gave Sark two thumbs up. Jack was as readable as a wall, while Sydney wouldn't look  at Sark.

            He looked back at the letter, then tossed it on the semi-circular table. He let out a long sigh.

            "I'd like to propose a third option," Sark began. He saw Sydney's head snap up, and it gave him hope that this was the right decision, for both of them. "I will leave and be a civilian, but I can be brought back as a freelancer to help your agency." Sydney's eyes seemed to ask him what he was doing.

            "Sark," Kendall said, "how is this any better than the other options?" Sark shot the bald man a condescending look.

            "I have little desire to continue in this business, whether working for you, Derevko or myself. But I'd like to stay in Los Angeles," Sark said, with a flick of his eyes towards Sydney. "I don't want you constantly monitoring me, and I don't want to be pulled in frequently either. So I leave it up to Agent Sydney Bristow to contact me should I be needed. This way, you feel confident in my loyalties, you receive my help when necessary, and I don't have to see you very often."

            Kendall almost smiled at that. "So you want the best of both worlds."

            Sark smirked at him. "As best as it can be." He glanced at Sydney, who was trying to hide a smile. Weiss didn't even try to hide it. And Vaughn looked worried and defeated.

            Kendall looked to Jack, who didn't move a muscle. Kendall looked back to Sark. "Agreed."

            Sark nodded. "Good. If you'll make the necessary adjustments, I'll sign the document." Kendall passed the letter to an agent, who hurried out of the room.


	34. Epilogue Part 9B

Part 9B: The Conclusion

            As soon as she could approach him without seeming too eager to anyone watching, Sydney ran to confront Sark.

            "Why?" she asked. Sark just looked her over, happy to be so close to her without the fear of being thrown into a cell.

            "Sark." He refocused. 

            "Why what?" he asked with a smile. 

            "I didn't think you wanted to stay in the spy-life," she said, redirecting her question.

            "Sydney," Sark said, reaching out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, "I didn't want to leave you. And I figured you may want to stay with the CIA." He paused, watching for her reaction. She looked at her shoes. "Now, you know how I feel about the CIA, but some of you aren't so bad." She looked into his bright eyes as she heard the slight laughter in his voice.

            "Oh really?" she countered with traces of a grin.

            "Yeah," he replied softly. "I could stand Vaughn on occasion, and Weiss is even fun." He saw her beam at that, and he knew it made her happy to know that he didn't despise everyone in her life. "And I wanted to stay close because I thought you may want to keep saving the world from time to time."

            She bit her lip. "Is that why you said you'd freelance?"

            Sark smiled. "If you go out into danger, I would rather be there to back you up and protect you than sit idly by and wait for a phone call." Her eyes shone at that, and Sark wanted to just scoop her up and kiss her.

            He thought better of it as Agents Vaughn and Weiss approached them.

            "Hey, how's the free man?" Weiss greeted. Sydney quickly wiped her eyes.

            Sark just grinned and held out a hand to Weiss. "Thank you, for your help in that." Weiss shook his hand eagerly. Sark didn't offer it to Vaughn but just gave him a nod.

            "So we were thinking of a celebration dinner," Vaughn said. Sark raised an eyebrow at him. _On my account??_ "For saving the world and all," Vaughn quickly added. Sark tried to hide a smirk.

            "Sure!" Sydney said. "Where to?"

            Sark was slightly worried about the level of establishment Weiss would choose, but that worry subsided when he saw the wine list later.

            Sark ordered a nice bottle and poured it for his comrades. Weiss took a sip.

            "Wow! You're buying, right?" he said, grinning at Sark. Sydney actually giggled, taking a sip of her glass. Sark just laughed, happy to be acting somewhat normal, even if Agent Vaughn was around.

            Then his cell phone rang. Vaughn, Weiss and Sydney looked at him intently as he answered the call.

            "Yes," he said, knowing who it was. 

            "How did things end up?" Irina asked. Sark glanced as his companions, debating about whether to leave the table. But he stayed, not wanting them to think he was collaborating with the "enemy."

            "They ended well. We stopped Sloane." Sydney raised an eyebrow at him, doubting what he was doing. 

            "I assumed so. What's going on for you?" There was some hesitancy in her voice, and Sark knew she already suspected he struck a deal with the CIA.

            "I'm a normal civilian now," Sark said. "I'm enjoying my first dinner as such."

            Vaughn was glaring at him, but Weiss was trying to kick Vaughn under the table so he'd lighten up. Weiss ended up kicking Sark. He jumped at the kick and glared at Weiss, who held up two hands in surrender.

            Sark smiled at that.

            "Is she there?" Irina asked. Sark looked directly at Sydney.

            "Yes."

            Irina paused for a few moments, and Sark knew she was putting the pieces together. "I suspect this will be my last phone call for a long time, under the circumstances."

            Sark nodded, knowing she wouldn't see, but knowing she would understand.

            "Look out for her," she said. "And make sure you don't lose her." He could hear the regret in her voice, no doubt because she had made that mistake and lost Sydney years ago.

            "I will." Sark didn't hang up immediately, just communicating in the silence some form of thanks and farewell. Irina, he noticed with some emotion, did the same.

            When he ended the call, he looked up to three very interested CIA agents. He smiled at them all.

            "Just saying goodbye."

            Sydney's smile was light but accepting. Vaughn was calming down, seemingly ready to let go of that one technical slip-up to the agreement Sark signed early. Weiss just reached for the bottle of wine.

            Sark leaned back, surveying the three as they continued on—eating, chatting, drinking. _It's all so normal._ Not just for them, but for himself. Though he knew moments of boredom would come, Sark felt optimistic about this new life. _I can do this_.

            "So Sark," Weiss said as he finished laughing over some joke, "what are you going to do now?" Sark quickly adopted a stone-cold look on his face as he answered.

            "Open a gun shop." The reaction from Vaughn was priceless. Sark couldn't help but break his facade and laugh at the agent, whose eyebrows had gone spiky. He visibly relaxed after he realized Sark was just playing with him, but not before shooting Sark a brief glare.

            "Seriously," Sydney said, laughing at the two men. "Have you thought about it?"

            Sark shook his head. When he moved to New Zealand, he hadn't done much but wait for Sydney. Even then he hadn't thought about what he'd do. 

            "What do you want to do?" The question, surprisingly, came from Vaughn. Sark shrugged.

            "I really haven't thought about it. Any suggestions?" he asked, waving his hand at the three for answers.

            "Well, what can you do?" Weiss asked. Sark shot him a look.

            "Would you like to see my resume?" Sark asked sarcastically. 

            "If it has your first name on it, sure," he shot back with a grin. Sark shook his head, silently laughing at that.

            "I'm an excellent shot, know how to use a variety of weapons, can kill a man 10 different ways barehanded, and I'm good at analyzing any situation," Sark rattled off. When he finished, the three agents were just staring at him. "Well, not like any of you can't do the same."

            "Ten ways?" Weiss repeated. Sark laughed.

            "I guess more practical and accepted skills are languages," he said. He held up his hands and started ticking them on his fingers. "Italian, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese, Mandarin, German, some Japanese, and a few others that rarely come in handy."

            "You could always teach," Weiss suggested. Sark just shot him an are-you-kidding-me look while both Sydney and Vaughn laughed.

            "I can't see Sark teaching people how to speak German," Vaughn said, chuckling. Sark watched the man, intrigued that he seemed to be more accepting by the minute.

            "You know, Sark, there is one thing I've always wondered," Weiss said. His cryptic approach to the question made Sark cock his head to the side in anticipation. "Where do you buy your clothes?"

            Sydney burst out laughing.

            "He is so right!" she said, pointing at Weiss. "Where do you get your clothes?"

            "Is it a good thing that you all are so curious about my apparel?" Sark asked. Subconsciously, he was worried that all this time he'd looked ridiculous rather than sharp and intimidating.

            "Oh yeah," Sydney said immediately. Her eyes shifted to her comrades nervously, probably since she actually said that aloud. It made Sark smile at her seductively.

            "Well, come on, man," Weiss continued. "'Fess up. Who's your supplier?"

            It was Sark's turn to laugh. "Supplier? My clothing is hardly a drug line." He took another sip of wine and shifted in his seat. "There is an assortment of shops I find my clothes at."

            "Whatever," Vaughn muttered. Weiss picked up right where his partner left off.

            "Yeah, seriously. It has to be straight Armani." Suddenly Weiss sat up straighter, and it was quite evident a light bulb had gone off in his head.

            "What?" Sark asked.

            "That's it!" Weiss exclaimed. "You should be in the fashion industry." Vaughn took off with the idea.

            "Fashion consultant."

            "Designer," Weiss added.

            "Model," Sydney said. Vaughn nearly blanched at that, and Sark sat up straighter.

            "Could you really see me on a runaway by anorexic women?" He was somewhat serious with that question, but the three agents just broke down into what could best be described as giggles.

            Sark sighed and took another sip of wine. He'd figure something out sooner or later, but for now, he just watched the agents.

             "Come on, I think you'd be a great model," Sydney said, giggling still as they left the restaurant.

            Vaughn and Weiss started heading off in a different direction.

            "Hey, we're going to go home," Weiss said in parting. Sark nodded.

            "Thank you for the evening." This time he extended his hand to both the men. Vaughn shook it, and for some reason that also gave Sark the impression that the future, even with Vaughn working with Sydney, might be somewhat pleasant.

            "G'night," Sydney said. Sark thought she had a few too many glasses of wine, but supported her somewhat as they walked off to her car. She held out the keys to him, which he took immediately.

            "Where to?" he asked.

            "Home, Geeves, home." A fit of drunken laughter followed, and Sark was quite glad he was the one behind the wheel.

            The lights at Sydney's home were on. Sark hoped Will Tippin wasn't there as he half-dragged Sydney inside.

            "Hey, you're home!" came a female voice. _Francie_. She appeared out of the kitchen moments later, and stopped in her tracks.

            "Oh sorry, I didn't know—I'm Francie," she said, extending a hand to Sark. He smiled politely but nodded at Sydney as an excuse for not shaking her hand.

            "Here, let me," she said, pulling Sydney off of Sark. Sydney suddenly jumped up and plopped down on a couch. She looked up dreamily at Sark.

            He couldn't help but feel unnerved by this sudden forwardness. Her eyes conveyed desire, a fact Francie didn't fail to notice.

            "Uh, I'll leave you two alone," she said as she made a dash for her room.

            "No," Sark quickly spoke up. "Um, perhaps we should put her in her bed." Francie eyed him, trying to see his intentions. Sark sighed. "I have no desire to take advantage of Sydney."

            Francie smiled and then grabbed her inebriated roommate. "Come on, Syd."

            Sark helped Francie as they went back to Sydney's room. He removed her shoes and took off her jacket. Then he stepped aside as Francie put her under the covers.

            "I'm not tired," Sydney suddenly muttered. Sark smiled at her closed eyes and protest.  He watched her as she settled in the sheets. She raised an arm to move her silky hair away from her face and then laid still. Sark leaned over her and gave her a light kiss on her forehead.

            "Goodnight, Sydney," he said. He watched her for a moment later, and then followed Francie out to the living room.

            "So you are . . . ."

            "Sark," he said with a smile."

            "Shark?" she repeated, skeptical at the name. Sark hid a laugh. 

            "Sark. Take out the 'h.'"

            Francie nodded and went to the kitchen. "Nice to meet you. Do you want anything to drink?" she asked, taking out a glass for herself.

            Sark shook his head.

            "No, I've had enough for one night," he said as he looked over the apartment. He remembered the last time he was here, hiding behind a cough and in closets. He smiled to himself until he noticed Francie was still looking at him.

            "Um," he said, running a hand through his hair, "I should get going. Could you recommend a nearby hotel?"

            Francie waved a hand at him as if to shush him.

            "Just stay here. It's late and you said yourself you've drunk too much." Sark started to object, but with a wave of the hand, he went quiet again. "Besides, we have a couch."

            Sark smiled and slowly nodded. "Thank you."

            "So where are you from?" Francie asked. Sark readied himself for a lie but then shut his mouth. _This is one of Sydney's friends._ _And I don't have to hide myself anymore._ After a career of lying and deceptions, Sark tried again.

            "Ireland, originally. But I've lived all over." He suddenly found himself yawning. 

            "You'll have to tell me more, but for now I'll let you get some sleep," Francie said. "Make yourself at home."

            Sark thanked her and took off his suit jacket and tie. As he kicked off his shoes, he reflected on the day. He knew things had gone verily well, not just with the CIA, but with Sydney and those in her life. He smiled as he thought about the dinner, and about Sydney.

            She seemed quite pleased that he was willing to stick around to help her. Which meant, he liked to think, that she wanted him around. He didn't know what was ahead between them, but he planned on following Irina's advice: he wouldn't lose her.

            He heard the voices before they registered with faces. Sydney and Francie were chatting quietly behind him. Sark opened his eyes slowly. In front of him was a coffee table and sofa chairs. He was still laying on the couch, one hand tucked under his head and the other cradled over his stomach. 

            Sark stretched out, yawning as he pulled out all the creaks in his body. The conversation between Sydney and Francie faltered.

            "You awake there?" Francie's voice had a slightly amused tone to it.

            Sark sat up, and ran a hand through his bed-head. 

            "Barely," he said groggily. He noticed their stares at his appearance. "Do you mind if I use your facilities to make myself presentable?" 

            Francie giggled at his formality and Sydney nodded.

            "Back there, Sark," she said pointing. He didn't miss her admiring smile.

            When he returned, he caught the girls whispering over cups of coffee. They hushed up and separated as soon as he reentered the room.

            "Did I miss something?" he asked, as Francie hurried out to leave them alone. Sark smoothed out his dress shirt, even though it was wrinkled beyond help.

            Sydney's eyes sparkled with mischievous laughter. "Nope. Just talking."

            Sark shot her a look. "Just because I've retired from our business doesn't mean I'm instantly clueless, Sydney."

            She laughed, and got up to pour him a cup.

            "Here," she said, still smiling as she passed him the mug. Sark took it and sat down across from her.

            "I take that to mean you're not telling," Sark deduced aloud. _Two can play that game_. Sydney just shrugged, so Sark moved on. "How are you feeling?"

            "Me?" Sydney asked. "I'm not the one who was deathly ill recently." Sark smirked and pointed to her head.

            "Hangover?" 

            "Oh," she said, grinning as she understood. "Fine. Thank you for . . . taking care of me." Sark smiled at her sudden timidity. "I didn't . . . do anything silly, did I?"

            The smirk reappeared. "Well, that depends on your definition of silly."

            She looked mortified as she seemed to imagine all the potential embarrassments. Sark finally laughed.

            "You were fine. Friendly, but fine." She shot him a look, but then glanced down at her coffee. Her hand came up to tuck away a loose strand of hair.

            "When I woke up this morning," she started, "I was half-sure you would were gone."

            "Gone as in out of the country?" Sark clarified. She nodded. "I'll blame it on the wine, since I thought I made it clear I was sticking around." His tone was chiding but playful. Sydney smiled, but Sark knew she was thinking about them.

            "You're wrong, you know," she said into her mug.

            "What?" Sark asked, going tense. _I'm never wrong_, he thought instantly. He held his mug mid-air, waiting for more before finishing the rest of his cup.

            "In Spain you said you wouldn't be a part of my future." Sark relaxed. "But you are. I decided that awhile ago. It just took me till now to rediscover that," she said.

            "And now what?" Sark asked, his confidence rising. "Where does that leave us?" She moved closer to him and just stared at him with a smile on her lips.

            "Together. If you still want me." She kissed him, softly. Sark didn't hesitate to return the kiss and revel in the moment. _Not just the moment_. The future ahead of them.

            "Take this as a 'yes,'" Sark said quietly. He kissed her back again.

            Sydney finished the kiss with a light peck on his nose, then leaned back. She watched him, analyzing, as she took another sip from her mug.

            "So," Sydney began slowly, "are you ever going to tell me your name?"

            Sark leaned forward, taking her cup from her and sipping slowly. "You really want to know?"

            She jumped to attention eagerly. Her eyes were so bright with anticipation. "Definitely. What's your name?"

            Sark took another slip and then a deep breath. He leaned back the kitchen chair and just smiled at her.


	35. Author's Note

Author's note:

Congrats to LiRA, who realized you guys already know Sark's name! Look at her review---what she details is probably why I had the story stop where it was.

Yes, this is the end. Thanks for all the reviews—I'm glad someone read this!! One person commented that Vaughn's character was a little out of place, but that's half the fun when writing a Sark story (since they'd obviously be competitors for Sydney). I started another fic, just a one chapter thing but I don't think I'll continue it since the series lately is leaving a lot to be desired of all characters. 

Thanks again!

DFerveiro


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